


The Widow in 221C

by Maria_Magdalena



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action, Eventual Romance, F/M, Forced Cohabitation, Gen, Mystery, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Possessive Sherlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Yakuza
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25497310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maria_Magdalena/pseuds/Maria_Magdalena
Summary: A woman with two young children end up under the protection of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson  when she finds herself on the run from Irish, Japanese, and Chinese gangsters on the hunt for an invention of her late husband. Much to her consternation and mortification, she develops a fascination for the strange, enigmatic detective. It is a distraction she cannot indulge because her life and the lives of her children may depend on him. But could she truly trust their fates on a man self-described as a "high-functioning sociopath"?**Contains adult situations, portrayals of violence, graphic language, and frank depictions of sexual scenarios**
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mycroft Holmes & Mrs. Hudson & Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	1. Why Are You So Weird?

**Author's Note:**

> This is Season 4 Sherlock with no Eurus. Mary is alive. The story is told from the first person POV of an original character.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kayako Carter meets Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Kayako finds herself morbidly fascinated with the enigmatic Mr. Holmes, even though it is completely inappropriate and she has bigger things to worry about.

The strange man who told me my estranged husband was dead had a very odd voice— deep and well-modulated, as though it were programmed to be that way. Very masculine, yet cold and sterile like my husband's lab equipment.

That wasn't the only thing that was odd about him— he was also a most unusual-looking man. He was tall and pale, as a lot of Englishmen were, but these were the only aspects of him that even came close to approaching ordinary.

His face consisted of sharp angles and shadows, so that he looked a little bit like a beautiful, moving fractal art. There was a stillness in him that reminded you of cool, calm waters, especially with his eyes being that indigo shade of blue, but for some reason, I had a feeling that stone-faced stoicism was a facade. There was a unique gleam in his eye as he took in the sight of our dingy motel room. It almost looked like glee.

Which didn't make sense. Why would a complete stranger care about the sorry state of our family affairs? There was no malice behind it, really. His expression reminded me of a little boy who lifts a heavy, rotted log after a night's rain and is excited to find all manners of nasty, slimy beasties under there. He wasn't even being judgmental about our circumstances; he was curious and eager to find out more. About... me? The children? My husband?

I would understand why he'd want to know more about James— hell, I didn't know enough about James. I thought I did, but a good lot of it was a lie. Nothing but lies.

And after all, he— the world's only consulting detective, as he wanted me to know— was the one trying to find out how Dr. James Carter, a perfectly average biochemist with a boring school teacher wife and two children, ended up in five, separate suitcases scattered all over London.

I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound callous about Jim, but he was a proper arsehole. And a cheater. And apparently, at the time of his death, he was developing a new, nasty party drug for the Chinese triads.

That was an avenue, the detective said wryly—another out of place reaction— that they would have to explore.

I looked over to where his partner-slash-colleague was sitting with my children. He was a compact, well-built man in his late thirties with a congenial face and clean-cut dark blond hair. Apparently, John Watson was a general practitioner and had a clinic not too far from the motel.

He was talking softly to my Timothy, while his big sister Helena, all of her six years, watched suspiciously. Dr. Watson took out a tiny flashlight and gave it to my son to play with, so he could inspect the large wound on my son's arm, which I had tended to myself as best as I could with a first aid kit I bought from the motel's convenience store.

"Did this hurt?" asked the kind-faced GP as he examined the area around the wound outside the bandage carefully.

"Well, duh," said his older sister Helena. "Obviously. He got shot. Of course it hurt."

"He didn't get shot, Lena," I told my daughter patiently, even as I struggled to keep my voice sound as calm as I could. "The bullet hit the sliding glass door and he cut his arm on the glass when we were going through."

It was a sound that would haunt me for the rest of my life. As the jagged glass cut into the flesh of my son's arm, his shriek of pain pierced the quiet we had been working hard to maintain and I had to be the one to slap my palm over his mouth to cut off his cries. And I kept my hand there even when he bit me repeatedly.

There had been so much blood— I remember wondering in amazement that so much of it could come from my son's four-year-old body. Which, of course, brought us another big problem that we didn't really need. Blood leaves a trail.

Any minute now, the people with big fucking guns currently riddling our house with bullets would enter and check the results of their carnage. No way in hell I would have let those Triads— pretty damn sure they were Triads, though I never saw them—find us loitering around.

I wrapped Tim's little arm in a dish towel, then covered it with two plastic bags, which I tied around tightly. We snuck out through the gate of the backyard to the back alley with Tim clinging to my back like a spider monkey. Helena was pale and wide-eyed but was uncharacteristically quiet and cooperative. I think even her six-year-old brain could decipher that we were in some deep shit.

We hotfooted it down the streets, hiding in between cars, just in case we were being followed. I was also looking for a car to break into. I've been out of practice for about fifteen years and anti-car-theft technologies have developed leaps and bounds since then.

It was right about then that I remembered that the Hartwells' daughter Jessica had an old beat-up VW Rabbit. She had just recently gotten her driver license and since she was the youngest of four, she was the last one on the receiving line for the Rabbit. Which tended to stall on really cold days. And hot days too, come to think of it.

It wasn't the fastest getaway car in the neighborhood, but it was the easiest to break into and hotwire. Since it was a junker, it had no alarm. Sorry, Jess. I stuck the kids in the backseat while explaining to them that we were just borrowing the car and would give it right back and that Jesse probably wouldn't mind if she knew who'd taken it. Oh, good old Mrs. Carter from three blocks over. She'd probably bring back the damn thing freshly washed and full of petrol.

"You are from San Francisco," the blue-eyed detective was saying. "You emigrated from America maybe seven or eight years ago and you haven't been back even for a visit since you left."

I opened my mouth to reply, completely blanked out on what I was about to say, and could only stare at the man for a few moments. Had I told anyone that? It didn't seem like something I would get into while narrating the night's events to the stone-faced Chief Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard.

Did I still have an American accent after all these years? From the moment I moved to England, I tried my best to eradicate my Northern California accent and believed all this time that I had succeeded. Jim often remarked that I sounded more English than he did. So how did this man—

No, I hadn't said anything about me or my past at all. In fact, I was still very shaken over how quickly we were found and by the fuzz at that. We had tried to avoid all major roads getting out of London and I had not seen anyone following us. Have I gotten so rusty over the years? I used to be able to shake the cops like nobody's business.

I had every intention of reaching Jim's sister Diane, who had a house in Bristol, but halfway through the drive, Tim began to complain about his arm and Helena resumed being her six-year-old monsterish self and whined about being hungry and cold and that we were going to die.

I dumped the Rabbit behind a 24-hour diner and jogged the remaining two blocks to the open motel with my kids. I had them covered with a couple of the airline blankets that I found in the backseat.

Bewildered, I returned my attention to the blue-eyed detective, whose intense scrutiny of me, was really starting to make me feel uncomfortable. The man had a way of looking at you like he could see right through your bone. I shivered despite my usual resolve and clasped my arms tighter to my body. A move that would be seen as a defensive gesture, to be sure, but the detective's gaze made me feel hot and cold at the same time and like my skin was suddenly two sizes too tight.

"How do you know that?" I demanded wearily of him. "That I'm from San Francisco and all that stuff?"

He gave me a look like he couldn't believe I would ask such a question and opened his mouth, probably to say something patronizing about how obvious it all was and then begin to elucidate on how he gleaned the information. But just then, Dr. John Watson raised his head and gave his companion a disapproving frown.

"Sherlock," he said in a calm, even tone."It is not a good time. This poor woman has been through a lot tonight."

"Right." The detective nodded, then did the most curious thing: he bit down on his lower lip. It was gone within a second, but what a sight it was. He had the most luscious lips I had ever seen on a man—a full, almost perfect cupid's bow. And they did nothing to detract the sheer masculinity the man exuded.

This guy was the very definition of Alpha Male, yet not in an obvious roid-rage way. This was a man who could walk into any room, analyze the situation quickly, and do what needs to be done. This was a man who took things in hand and got shit done, just because he could.

"When was the last time you saw your husband alive, Mrs. Carter?" asked the detective.

"Last week." My own lips were suddenly very dry. I glanced at the unopened bottle of water on the table just within the detective's reach and wondered what he would think if I asked him to get it for me. He struck me as the kind of guy who analyzed the smallest of actions for any hint of motive.

The last time I saw Jim alive— or the last time I saw Jim as I knew Jim... alive?

"Last week," I repeated roughly, taking a quick moment to moisten my bottom lip with a swipe of my tongue. I did not fail to notice that the black circle that surrounded the blue irises of the detective's eyes momentarily thickened and got darker. I took a mental note of this. "At our house."

"Right," he said. "And what did he do when he got there? Did he do or say anything out of turn? Was he acting strangely?"

"Look, detective, he'd been acting strange for the last three months," I said carefully. "He'd come home at odd hours— like three or four in the morning— sleep, shower, then return to the lab before noon. The children and I hardly ever saw him. The thing is, detective—"

 _"He is not a detective!"_ said the beautiful, slender black woman in the cleanly-tailored pantsuit by the door. It was the first time she had spoken and the glare she leveled at the man I was speaking to was nothing short of malevolent.

"Of the Scotland Yard," he said with wry amusement. "And thank heaven for that. You must forgive Sergeant Donovan. Her interlude with her boyfriend was interrupted last night by the early arrival of the boyfriend's wife."

"You're not gonna goad me to play your mind games, freak," snarled his adversary. "Stop pretending you know more than you know."

"As you wish, Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes upward, a funny, little move that seemed uncharacteristically buoyant for such a serious face. His focus, when it was returned to me, was even more probing and intense.

"Do you have ties to the Chinese Triads, Mrs. Carter?"

I looked down at my wrists and surreptitiously tugged at my sleeves to make sure that none of the skin was showing. "Are you asking me that because I'm Asian? Dude, I'm not even Chinese."

It was a common tactic of an American person of color. When cornered, make the conversation about race. If needed, imply that the person you're talking to is racist. Use tactic sparingly.

But it seemed Mr. Holmes was familiar with the tactic because all he did was quirk up one perfect eyebrow. "I know you're not, Mrs. Carter. It is obvious from the shape of your eyes as well as your facial bone structure. You are Japanese with... I would say, Eastern European and Austronesian strains, mixed in."

"Sherlock," said John Watson when it looked like his partner was about to launch into a long explanation on how he was able to tell I was Japanese. I myself could tell he was about to do it. This self-satisfied "watch me" smirk came over his face and he oh so casually took a deep breath as though once he started talking, he wouldn't be able to stop for air, because he had to finish, just in case someone tried to interrupt him.

Suddenly, he leaned toward me as though he was going to kiss me and for a moment, I was completely frozen. Then instincts took over and I skittered further along the bed toward the center.

"I was only going to whisper something to you," he murmured so lowly that only he and I could probably hear.

"What was that, freak?" called Sergeant Donovan from her post at the door.

"You've a fine set of ears on you, Sergeant Donovan!" cried Mr. Holmes with obviously fake joviality. "We'll make a decent inspector out of you yet!"

The sergeant flashed him a rude gesture. "Sit and spin, arsehole."

I found myself getting irritated at the other woman for the seemingly unwarranted hostility she was projecting onto Mr. Holmes. Was there an undercurrent there that I wasn't privy to? Why did Sergeant Donovan seem to hate Sherlock Holmes so much?

"Oh, blast! Now I've gone and spilled this bottle of water all over myself. And on my favorite scarf, too. Sherlock Holmes, how could you be so clumsy?"

I doubted a man who seemed to contemplate his every move could be so careless, so I was surprised when I turned to face Mr. Holmes and found that the previously unopened bottle of water was now on the floor, on its side with half of it contents on the ugly carpet and a whole lot of it on the front of the detective's trousers and dark purple shirt. I thirsted after every drop.

Dr. Watson looked up briefly from his examination of my children, shook his head, and returned to his work.

"I do believe I'm going to need things with which to dry myself," Mr. Holmes enunciated, giving me a meaningful look. "Could you direct me to the washroom, Mrs. Carter?"

I almost laughed out loud at the exaggerated expression of innocence and mock embarrassment on his "too interesting to be called classically handsome" face. I bit my lower lip to stifle a hysterical urge to giggle.

"But of course, Mr. Holmes," I replied gravely, as he took my elbow and gently propelled me forward.

I found myself wishing he wasn't wearing gloves, so I knew what the touch of his hands felt like. I told myself to get a grip and stop acting like a ninny. Now was not the time to indulge a crush on someone. Now or anytime from now. Though my husband and I had been estranged for months, he had just died. This had to be shock. I couldn't find another reason for this idiocy. 

Sally Donovan watched us like a hawk as the tall detective and I crossed the room to go to the bathroom.

"I don't know what you're up to, Holmes, but you better not be up to your old tricks," she threatened. "Keep the door open."

We weren't two steps into the bathroom when I realized the mistake I had made, a major tactical error on my part. I had placed myself in a vulnerable position in tiny quarters with a large man who is unknown to me. God, I'm an idiot. Mr. Holmes loomed over my five-three frame. He had to be at least six-foot-two and easily had three stones on me.

I stood in front of the mirror in front of the sink and Mr. Holmes went directly behind me, even though he had about two feet of space behind him, easily. I could feel his breath on my hair. His breath smelled like spearmint and coffee. My heart was pounding so hard, slamming itself against my ribcage like it was trying to get out, and I was almost sure that he could hear the beats.

"Was there something you wanted to ask me that you didn't want the others to hear?" There had to have been a reason for that elaborate ruse with the water bottle. Otherwise, I would have to think that the man was completely insane.

His voice was slightly hoarse when he asked me to lift up my hair.

I turned around to face him, making sure my braid stayed in place. "Why?"

"I have an inkling of an idea. Indulge me, won't you please."

When I only continued to stare at him, he made a huffing sound, placed his hands on my shoulders, and forcibly--yet not painfully-- turned me toward the mirror again. His assured, determined blue eyes met my worried but annoyed ones on the surface.

"I'm going to look now," he announced softly, lifting my braid and placing it atop my head along with his palm. His long, low whistle told me he was impressed with what he saw.

I hung my head in shame and blinked back the tears that had sprung to my eyes. The ones that covered my arms like sleeves were mostly gone via laser, as costly and painful as they were, though some of the scars will always be there, which is why I always wore long-sleeved shirts, even in the summer. But the one on the skin of my back covered the entire span of it. It had taken almost eight years to finish and all the surface area was practically covered. There wasn't a patch of skin that wasn't inked.

He removed one glove and with his index finger, traced the path of the tail of the alpha dragon. On my back, there were three. My skin seemed to crave his touch like parched, cracked ground for rain. It was insanity. Was it because it had been so long since I had been truly touched by a man?

I shivered despite myself and my knees became rubbery. I would have fallen and hit my head against the sink if he hadn't caught me by the hips.

He lowered his head toward mine and when his lips brushed the upper shell of my ear, my world stopped moving and I ceased breathing. "You are," he whispered, "Yakuza."


	2. Sherlock Takes the Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds out that his prospective new client is a former Yakuza in hiding and thinks of a place to safely stash her and her children. The Triads have found their quarry and shoot up the place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is told from the first person POV of an original female character

This was why I wore turtlenecks even when it was muggy and sweltering hot outside. This was why I left Kyoto at ten years old to live with my estranged Japanese-American mother in the States. This was why at twenty-four, I found myself marrying a man I had only been seeing for a few months, just so I could escape to another country across the Atlantic Ocean.

I didn't ask to be born to a boss of one of the largest groups of Yakuza in Japan. I didn't want to learn how to use a gun. I didn't want to know how to use a knife in a fight. I didn't want to learn how to kill efficiently with a garrote. I was thrust into this life at infancy.

I just wanted to be normal.

Can you imagine what high school in America was like when my father's hoodlums picked me up after school because my father insisted on it? My father's word was law. You do not disobey my father unless you're keen on losing some fingers.

Instinct took over and I shoved my elbows backward with the intention of hitting Mr. Holmes in the stomach, but he was fast and dodged me.

"I had a feeling you were going to strike," he said with a trace of amusement in his voice.

What is it with this guy? He might be one of the most attractive men I've ever laid eyes on, but he's kind of weird and seems to think everything in my life was set up and happening for his pleasure.

I turned around to face him. My heartbeat had slowed to where I needed it to be. Years of practice. You couldn't fire a gun or slit a man's throat with your heart slamming against your ribcage. I was ready to fight.

While I had no doubt that Mr. Holmes was very intelligent and would make a formidable opponent, he was also probably raised a gentleman. Most likely, he wouldn't hit a woman back. And if he weren't, judging by everything within my immediate reach in the bathroom, I could think of at least six ways I could send him to his maker in less than ten seconds.

But Mr. Holmes was not my enemy. Not yet, at any rate. And if I didn't relax my stance, it was a distinct possibility on the horizon. I had a feeling that one did not want to make an enemy out of Sherlock Holmes.

I took a deep breath and nodded. "Tokugawa Yoshiro was my father. He was the chief of one of the more successful factions under Yamaguchi-Gumi. He was on the board of directors."

Despite my best efforts to keep my hair out of my face, a lock of hair had escaped my ponytail and fallen over my eyes. Mr. Holmes lifted his hand and reached toward my face, but mere inches away, his hand dropped and he stepped back, clearing his throat. I shoved the offensive lock back with the palm of my hand.

"Your father was killed in August of last year. Sixty-seven stab wounds and left for dead outside his home in Kyoto, while he was out walking his dog," he recited automatically and quickly. "His killers had rolled him into a nearby ditch, so he was not found until the next morning. Your young step-mother did not look for him because the two of them had quite a row the night before and it had been your father's habit to storm off and visit one of his hostess clubs, only to return the next day."

I was, to say the least, shocked. How did these people know so much about my family? Had I been hiding for nothing and Scotland Yard knew who I was all along? Had I spent the last eight years, deluding myself that my dark days were finally over because my past was truly dead and buried?

"No," the detective said and I wondered if I had voiced my queries out loud. "No one else knows who you are. The Scotland Yard couldn't find the hole of its arse if it had a map and giant torch." He grinned briefly, then something unusual happened. His mouth curved in what I could only call an upside-down smile. It was...a smile in reverse and a little more than unsettling.

"I see," I murmured, for lack of anything else to say. "How do you know so much about me? I've never even heard of you until today."

Those silver-blue eyes widened in surprise, then outrage, and for a moment, he could only gape at me in disbelief, like I had told him something truly incredible. "Watson," he yelled, poking his head out of the bathroom door. "This woman claims she has never heard of me."

"Not everyone follows your Twitter feed and practically worships Watson's blog, Holmes," said Sergeant Donovan with a trace of unmistakable glee. "Do you, Mrs. Carter?"

"No," I replied, squeezing past Mr. Holmes to get out of the bathroom. "I don't have any social media accounts."

"There you are, Sherlock," said the good doctor like an adult placating a child.

I crossed the room toward the bed where I had been sitting with the detective following closely behind me. I could feel his presence like humidity on a hot summer day, but not unpleasant.

"It's completely impossible," he balked sulkily, returning to the seat he previously occupied. "Do you not watch the telly or read the newspapers?"

"We don't have a telly," my outraged son announced to the room at large. "Daddy says it rots your brains."

"Said," the detective corrected succinctly. "The man is--"

"Mr. Holmes!" I heard my own voice cut through the air like a whip and the detective ceased instantly, once again turning his full attention on me.

What kind of man is this that he would announce such a thing though he were merely reporting on the weather? The children were looking at me in awe, wide-eyed. Dr. Watson was finished patching them up and was standing behind them, his hands resting on their shoulders. His scrutiny of me was one of curiosity and wonder as he stared at me silently, the corners of his hazel eyes crinkling.

I had shut his friend up. Even the sergeant looked impressed. I imagined it wasn't a common occurrence as who would dare challenge the great Sherlock Holmes? I assumed, anyway, that he was supposed to be a big deal because he was kind of offended that I didn't know who he was.

That already made him lose cool points in my book, but the fact that he would announce the death of the children's father so carelessly was beyond the pale.

"I think I want everyone to get out now," I said wearily, opening my arms as both my children stumbled sleepily toward me. "My kids are tired, my nerves are frayed, and we've all had a bit of shock, so if you would all please get the fuck out, that would be fantastic."

"Mummy said a bad word," I heard my son whisper to my daughter. "The really bad one."

"Mrs. Carter," said Sergeant Donovan from her post. "We are not exactly done here. We have a few more questions."

"I think we have everything we need for now, Sergeant Donov--duck! Everyone take cover!"

The world erupted in a hail of bullets and broken glass. The assault lasted mere seconds, but it felt like eternity as the rat-tat-tat of the semi-automatic rifles drowned everything out and I couldn't hear my children. In those moments, I discovered what the end of the world would look like. 

Mr. Holmes had shoved me to the ground and thrown himself over my body while Dr. Watson had done the same for my children. I couldn't see very well as Mr. Holmes had my head partially covered with his heavy black coat, but from what little I could see, Helena's blond head was pressed down to the carpet and she was facing me.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a car's tires peeling away and maybe a couple of seconds of dead silence before the explosion of sound returned like someone unmuted the TV.

"Stay down," Mr. Holmes ordered through what sounded like gritted teeth and then he began to pat me down even with his weight still on me. For a skinny guy, he was surprisingly heavy. "Are you hurt?"

"No, but I can't breathe," I gasped, trying to wiggle out from under his weight.

"Can you not do that?" the detective said. "I'm checking you for injuries."

That was about the time the motel door was kicked in with enough force that it swung off the hinges. In the doorway was tall, gray-haired Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard with his gun drawn. There were two equally serious-looking officers flanking him.

"Is Donovan all right?" Lestrade demanded, doing a quick visual scan of the room in search of the beautiful sergeant.

"I'm right here, sir," said a thready voice from the far side of the room. Sergeant Donovan popped up from the floor on the side of the bed, clutching her bloody shoulder. "No bullet, just a flesh wound."

"Watson? Holmes?" called the detective inspector.

"I'm all good," said the doctor. "The children are fine as well."

The world's only consulting detective answered with a grunt of impatience.

"Get off me," I said, giving him a jab over my shoulder. "I need to check on my children."

"Is that Mrs. Carter?" asked Lestrade. "I'd advise you stay close to the ground right now, madam. We haven't caught the arseholes who did the drive-by. They might have left a couple of gunmen to finish the job."

"Mummy?"

That was Helena. Timothy had already started a healthy, plaintive wail, which Dr. Watson, who was sitting on the ground next to them, was trying to soothe.

Thankfully, Mr. Holmes had deemed it safe enough to lift himself off my person and was now presently sitting on the carpet across his friend Dr. Watson, who was watching us curiously, but not saying a word.

We were sitting on the floor in between the two full-sized beds. Mr. Holmes was sitting to my left, with his legs drawn up, trying to catch his breath and his arms resting on his knees. There was a streak of blood originating from his temple. He was hurt. I shuddered. Looking around, I took stock of the damage to the room. Practically all the walls were riddled with bullets and not a single framed picture survived. Helena crawled over to me and I clutched her to my chest as she began to cry.

My eyes burned with tears and exhaustion, so I buried my face in my little girl's mass of sweet-smelling curls. On the other side of me, Timmy had lifted my other arm and burrowed himself against my side, wrapping his skinny arms around my waist. He had stopped wailing but was still crying and there were active sniffles.

"Mummy," said Helena. "Are the bad people trying to kill us?"

I hated that my little daughter had to be taught the concept of killing and being killed at the age of six. It was something I had to explain, however, on our mad dash to the motel from the house. I had to get her to understand the urgency of the situation so she would cooperate with me. It was the only way.

"All right, Mrs. Carter?" Detective Inspector Lestrade queried, peering at my face. "We will be moving you and the children as soon as backup gets here. Special operations will be taking over to make sure that you and the children are taken to a secure location where you will remain safe until we catch the perpetrators."

"No."

That one word was said softly, but it was pronounced by a man whose tone would brook no further argument.

"Excuse me?" said Lestrade, looking at Mr. Holmes as though he were surprised that the other man had spoken. "Holmes, I suppose you have a better idea?"

"Infinitely and always." The man rose in one smooth, graceful move like a dancer or a vampire. From his standing position, he looked down at me and said, "Stay on the floor until I say it's safe. Keep your children close to your body."

I bristled at the commanding tone of his voice, but I couldn't argue with it. I wasn't an idiot. I would do anything to protect my children, even listen without question to an arrogant, supercilious, ice-wouldn't-melt-in-his-ass white man.

"Lestrade, I wouldn't trust Special Ops to guard a houseplant, let alone this little family."

"Sherlock, these are men with big bloody guns," said Dr. Watson. "They have a big truck that's bullet-proof and they can take this family to some remote, heavily guarded location in Yorkshire or something."

"John, we are talking about the Scotland Yard here. Do you really think they would waste all that time and money on one little family?" Mr. Holmes scoffed. When his friend reached out to check out his injury, he shook him off. "They don't have the budget. Besides, this place is crawling with police and the bloody Triads still attacked."

"Holmes, no matter what you think of the Scotland Yard, we really aren't a bunch of incompetent nincompoops. We are perfectly capable of protecting this family," said the Detective Inspector Lestrade with a bit of bluster.

"Is that why Dr. Jim Carter ended up chopped up and stuck in five suitcases spread throughout London?" Mr. Holmes demanded. "You were supposed to be protecting him, too."

"Oh, you fucking bastard!" The words were out of my mouth before I even knew what I was saying. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

On either side of me, my two children began to cry, tugging at my clothes, demanding to know if daddy was dead and who chopped him up and were they going to be chopped up, too?

"Way to go, mate," Lestrade said with disgust, slapping the taller man on the back, though not in a friendly way.

"Goddamn it, Sherlock," exclaimed Dr. Watson. "We've talked about this. There are certain things that must be handled with finesse. The children hadn't even been told about their father."

At least Mr. Holmes had the grace to look appropriately ashamed. He sighed and ran a hand through his thick, black, wavy hair. "I apologize. I did not mean to be so crass."

He knelt before us, so he was at eye-level with the children. He looked at Helena first, then at Tim. "I am the best at what I do, the very best in the entire world. I will find the ones responsible for your father's death and the ones who are trying to harm you and I will destroy—ahem, will make sure they are punished to the fullest extent of the law."

He had his large hands on the children's shoulders and my babies, though they hadn't stopped crying, looked mollified.

"I really did not mean to blurt it out like that," he told me, his eyes searching mine. "As John will tell you, I'm not very good at-- people stuff."

"He's awful at it," said Dr. Watson, though not unkindly. "He's working on it, but he can be a slow learner about these things."

I sighed in exhaustion. I really must have been in shock earlier to find this guy attractive. He was a complete weirdo. But there was a sincerity in his blue eyes that made it hard for me to stay angry with him. "You're still an arsehole," I said, reaching out to pat the side of his face.

"Right." He rose again in that uncannily smooth way of his and regarded the two men watching him. "They won't be safe with Special Ops."

Lestrade looked at him disbelievingly. "Oi, what do you propose then, Sherlock? That they stay with you? How the bloody hell will you protect them?"

"Will you send them to your parents in Sussex?" John Watson asked. "I don't think that's a good idea, Holmes. You don't want to involve them in this."

I held my children tighter as the men above our heads discussed our welfare as though we weren't in the room or were no more than cattle to be bussed around. Helena clutched my right arm and watched Sherlock Holmes with wide eyes, while Timmy lay his head against my hip and began to suck his thumb.

"And you're not thinking of sending them to me and Mary," John Watson said warningly. "Mary and I wouldn't hesitate to defend them, no problem, but with Rosie there--"

"Wait, wait!" said Lestrade. "Nobody is making any plans. The Special Ops will be arriving here at any minute, upon which they will take the Carters to a safe, highly secure, undisclosed location."

"No," insisted Sherlock Holmes. "I will take them."

"Take them where, Sherlock, to 221B Baker Street? Do you want to involve Mrs. Hudson in this, too? These guys are heavy-duty gangsters, Sherlock. They are not messing around."

"Remind me to tell you a thing or two about Mrs. Hudson over a pint sometime," Holmes replied dryly. "Look, Gavin..."

"Greg," said the detective inspector with a sigh.

"I can make a case for my brother that the Triads are a part of Moriarty's underground terrorist network and the government will take over from there. This way, your department will keep all the accolades and the glory, instead of those arseholes at MI-6."

"Wait," I piped up. "I like the sound of MI-6. How about you turn us over to them, instead?"

"This is blackmail, Holmes," said Lestrade with a growl, as though I hadn't spoken.

"You and I both know that the Scotland Yard needs a high profile case like this. It'll be easier for your boss to ask for that funding next quarter, won't it?"

"Sherlock, you are a son of a bitch."

"No, his mum is rather pleasant, really," said John Watson cheerily. "Don't know how the Holmes Brothers turned out the way they did, but their parents are perfectly nice people."

"Sherlock, tell me you're not really taking them to your flat on Baker Street," pleaded Lestrade.

"Of course not," Mr. Holmes replied, seemingly offended at the notion that he could come up with such an idea. "I'm taking them to 221C. No one has lived there for years. Hell, no one will even know they're there."


	3. 221C Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes the Carters to their new home for the time being and introduces them to Mrs. Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is told from the first person POV of an original female character

Mrs. Hudson was a short, jovial woman with dyed red hair and seemed to be in her mid-sixties. She had a lot of energy for an old broad and the children took to her immediately.

"When Sherlock told me you were coming, I had his boys clean out the place and air it out a bit," she was telling me as she unlocked the door marked 221C.

221C was a basement apartment and it smelled like it. The walls were old and dank and the only windows were the four small rectangles in the kitchen close to the ceiling and opened out onto the street.

The children and I would have a good view of London's foot traffic. Literally, we would be seeing nothing but feet.

From the front door, you had to go down a short flight of stairs to get to the ground floor, which comprised of three bedrooms, two small bathrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a dining area. I was surprised to find that the place was fully furnished and the furniture looked new.

"I know it looks like hell, dearie, but believe me, this building won't collapse on your heads," said Mrs. Hudson, fondly patting a yellowing wall. "They don't make buildings like this anymore. It survived The Blitz, you know."

Both Helena and Tim clung to my hands as Mrs. Hudson gave us a tour of our new home for the foreseeable future. It felt and looked like a larger scale old-school bunker from those science fiction films from the sixties.

I ventured toward the living room and found a nice fireplace on the far wall.

That was a nice surprise, but the shocker was the stuff that filled the living room. There was one big navy-blue corduroy sofa with a matching loveseat adjacent to it. Between them was a nice corner table with a glitzy Art Deco lamp. And the coffee table, which looked like solid oak, sat upon an obviously expensive, neatly woven carpet made from natural fibers. On the couches were comfortable-looking overstuffed throw pillows and blankets.

Open-mouthed, I turned to Mrs. Hudson who gave me an enigmatic smile and a little shrug. "Who—what—Is this from the Scotland Yard?"

"Mum, look at this telly. It's even bigger than the one my friend Stacy has," cried Helena. "And we have a Playstation and an XBox and a Wii!"

Dazed, I switched my attention to what had to be at least a 60-inch flat screen telly mounted on the wall. Below it were unopened boxes of all the latest video gaming consoles, retailing at three-hundred and fifty euros each, at least. Added to that were small mountains of video games that went with each console. Lord have mercy.

"This can't—" I couldn't think of a coherent thing to say. Already Timmy was clutching piles of video games to his chest and hugging them like a doll baby. "Kids, I don't—"

Mrs. Hudson poked me in the side, making me jump. "Leave them. They'll be safe enough. Come on and I'll show you the rest of the flat."

With my hand over my chest and a creeping feeling of dread, I followed the old woman to the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The first one was obviously a little girl's room, if it were decorated by an overindulgent parent. It had a canopy bed, which Helena had always wanted, and not too far from it was an unusual dollhouse. It took me a moment to realize that I was looking at a replica of the building we were standing in. It even had the little deli that was right next door. Helena was never going to want to leave.

Timmy's bedroom was just a boy's version of Helena's and his bed was a racecar. I walked in, opened a closet, and saw that it was full of brand-new clothes that were just exactly Timmy's size and in the same style I would have bought for him. I dashed back to Helena's room and found the same thing in her closet.

Someone had gone through the trouble to shop for my children so that we wouldn't have to go back to the old house to get our stuff, where the Triads were likely lying in wait, ready to ambush us.

If the surprises had stopped there, I would have been genuinely happy. My kids were smiling for the first time in days and though their faces remained wan, I could hear their laughter all the way from the living room. I bit down on my lower lip and blinked back the tears that had sprung to my eyes.

"Come, dear," prompted Mrs. Hudson, pulling at my elbow. "You must absolutely see your bedroom."

I was almost afraid of what I might see there. But I obediently followed the old woman who gave me a big grin before opening the door to my bedroom.

For a full minute, I couldn't think of a word to say. There were these weird, gaspy noises coming from my mouth, but none of them were actual words. I couldn't have done a better job if I had decorated the bedroom myself.

This room was slightly bigger than the other two and just like them, had no windows. But that almost didn't matter because it had central air and lots of lights. In the middle of the room was a queen-sized bed that sported all of my favorite colors—purple, gray, pink— and they all blended together so well.

Even though there weren't windows, there were drapes hanging from the walls, giving the illusion of windows, which I really appreciated.

The decor, the books on the shelf, the clothes in the closet— every single one of them were things I would have picked out for myself. They even got my size perfectly, down to the undies. Jeez, the Scotland Yard really went all out. Talk about taking care of us.

Was it guilt that prompted all of this? After all, according to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Jim had gone to them for help and they had failed to give him protection. Maybe they were doing this so I wouldn't sue their asses for dropping the ball and getting my husband killed.

But how did they know what kind of stuff to get us, down to the sizes and styles we would have picked ourselves? Well, duh, of course they went back to our house and checked out what we— but that didn't make sense, did it? Wouldn't they have just taken our stuff from there instead of spending a fortune on all these new things?

What the hell, then? Did they have a bloody psychic on staff? Of course they did! His name was Sherlock Holmes. I had finally checked out his blog called "The Science of Deduction" and apparently the man could make deductions on a person or a situation just with his very keen observational skills. Well, now, that would be a pretty handy skill to have.

I remembered then that he seemed to have been measuring me up as if by sight alone, he could determine centimeters— girth and thickness. I shivered at the memory of the dark-haired detective's careful perusal of me and how he was able to tell I had the tattoos on my back, representing my clan. Could he have seen through the thermal long-shirt that I was wearing? It was white and wasn't very thick.

"So there you are, Mrs. Carter," said Mrs. Hudson proudly as she gestured with her arm toward the breadth of the room. "Very impressive, innit? The boys did a great job cleaning the place, so you can hardly notice the damp smell, but don't you worry. Sherlock Holmes is on the case. He is speaking to a contractor right now about putting in more ventilators so you can get some fresh air down here."

I raised my eyebrows. Shouldn't he be working on solving my husband's murder case? "Oh. Does he usually do that, Mrs. Hudson? Consult contractors on your behalf for the maintenance of this building?" I found I liked the idea of Mr. Holmes doing this for Mrs. Hudson to ensure that the old lady wasn't getting bamboozled by contractors.

Mrs. Hudson laughed as though I had just told her the funniest thing she had heard in a week. "Oh no, dear," she said after catching her breath. "Not at all." She patted my arms and wiped tears from her eyes. "Oh, the very idea that Sherlock—" She began to laugh again.

"What?" I asked, starting to feel like an idiot. Not that I haven't been feeling like an idiot. This was just a continuation. I've been feeling like an idiot for the past seventy-two hours, ever since I met one Sherlock Holmes.

I heard one of my children—Helena, specifically— calling for me, so I went down the hall that led to the living room with Mrs. Hudson following closely behind me.

The children were standing in front of the telly as a dark-haired man in a long-sleeved lavender shirt messed about with setting up one of the video game consoles. He must have set it up right because the main menu of the video game console popped up on the telly.

"Would you look at that," said Mrs. Hudson in wonderment.

"Oh, I know," I replied, nodding. "I'm rubbish at putting electronic things together."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at me and patted my arm. "Never mind, dear." She joined the little group by the telly and asked who wanted tea and biscuits.

My children raised their hands to this rather avidly, chanting "Me! Me! Me!"

Sherlock Holmes put in a video game that was age appropriate for the kids featuring a friendly-looking dragon and a jumping ball with a face and arms, then walked up to where I was standing. Mrs. Hudson had gone to her flat to prepare the tea and grab the biscuits and the children were busy with their game.

"I'd like to talk to you now, Mrs. Carter. I have a few more questions to ask. Is there somewhere we can talk?"

I nodded and indicated the kitchen. "Lena, Timmy, I'm just going to be in the kitchen with Mr. Holmes, all right? Yell if you need anything."

As soon as the kids were out of earshot, I turned around to face Sherlock Holmes who was watching me with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

I raised my eyebrows and spread my arms to indicate how impressed I was with the apartment. "How did you know to prepare all this for us? This is insane. It must have taken weeks."

He shrugged. "A week. I've known about you and the children for a while and prepared a safe place for you to stay."

I gaped at him. "But this is crazy overboard." He shrugged again and merely stared at me until I began to feel self-conscious. "What?" 

"You didn't sleep very well last night and you've been crying," he said softly, guiding me to the table and chairs. "You haven't eaten properly for at least a day and you're probably quite close to collapsing."

I sat in the chair he pulled out for me. "Oh, you deduced that, did you?"

He smiled and shook his head. "Just making observations, Mrs. Carter."

He really was a most unusual looking man, with his angular face and chiseled features juxtaposed with his cupid's bow lips and beautiful wavy hair. "What observations have you made, Mr. Holmes? I'm just curious."

He pursed those beautiful lips as though he were trying to suppress a smile. "There's a coffee stain on your shirt by your left breast and it is light brown, so you used creamer. I can smell it on you and it's obviously the coffee lightened with those packets that come sealed with a napkin and a stirrer, courtesy of the cheap motel that you stayed at. The bags under your eyes and the red, puffiness of your nose tell me you've been crying." I gasped in outrage over this, but he kept going. "As for the collapse, it is inevitable as you haven't had a proper meal for twenty-four hours. Add that to the lack of sleep, the shock from your double attempted murder, and grieving over your husband, I'm surprised you're still standing."

Was he really able to tell all of this from a coffee stain on my left boob? The man was just too much. "I'm made of sterner stuff, Mr. Holmes."

"And you're a recovering smoker, aren't you?" he said, then leaned closer to me until his face was only a few inches from mine. "No... you sneak one in every once in a while." He lifted both of my hands and regarded my fingers. "Yes, you still smoke every once in a while. My guess is when everyone is asleep, you sneak out of bed and head out to your backyard or something for a cigarette smoke in the middle of the night."

He was absolutely correct, but I wasn't about to confirm that. He could tell from a study of my lips and fingers that I still smoked occasionally? And that bit about the backyard? "You really ought to get your own show, Mr. Holmes. One of those ones where you trick people into thinking you could talk to their dead relatives by cold-reading them."

This time, he did smile. "When you're anxious, you bring your hand to your mouth and touch your upper lip with your index finger and your bottom one with your middle finger as though you still have a cigarette to suck on."

"Terrible habit, smoking," I said, leaving my seat and heading for the sink. "Would you like a cuppa?"

He was drumming his fingers on the Formica table when I looked at him. "Mrs. Hudson is making tea."

"Am I boring you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Not yet," he said, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "When did you disappear, Mrs. Carter? How old were you?"

As if on auto-pilot, I filled a tea kettle with water from the sink and turned on the electric stove, upon which I set down the kettle. I returned to my seat, hugging my arms to my chest. I knew this was something I had to talk about, because my past may have something to do with the mess we're dealing with right now, but the very thought of talking about one specific memory made me nauseous. Even now, my stomach was heaving at the idea.

"I was twenty-four when I left for England," I answered, putting both of my hands on the Formica table. They were curled into fists. "I was just a girl when I faced the highest officers of the Yamaguchi-gumi and asked for my freedom. Even though I was my father's daughter, I was not going to get away without a scratch. If I was not going to willingly follow the gokudō, I would have to be... shown the error of my ways. It is the path of the Yakuza. If you violate a rule, you must face the consequences the same as everyone else, whether you're a gang boss or a hoodlum."

Sherlock Holmes did not make a move to touch my fists on the table, merely looked at them. "What was the punishment for desertion?"

Tears were running down my face as I straightened my left hand and laid it back down flat on the table. Unless you're paying attention, you really wouldn't notice it. It took Jim a long time to notice it and I didn't see a reason to point it out to him. I told him it was a childhood accident.

"May I?" Sherlock Holmes asked softly.

I couldn't trust myself to speak, so I merely nodded. He lifted my left hand from the table as though it were an injured bird with a broken wing and brought it up closer to him for inspection. He laid my hand flat across his palm, running the tips of his fingers over my nails, then hovering over the little finger where there was a shiny nub where the third segment should be. Even now, years later, the very sight of it was still enough to make my stomach turn.

"I'm sorry," he said simply, returning my hand to the table. "I hoped they used a very sharp cutting implement to relieve you of the tip of your finger?"

From another person, the question would have been ghoulish, but I was starting to get a little used to Sherlock Holmes' manner of speaking and realized he was hoping it had been a quick slice, with no suffering on my part. That was how I read it, anyway. I could be completely wrong and the guy was a complete psycho. "It was my grandfather's samurai sword. My father cleaned it regularly. It was very sharp."

The look on Sherlock Holmes' face was inscrutable and I couldn't tell what he was thinking. "How old were you?"

"I was 17." I could feel the bile rising toward my throat, but I managed to keep it down. This was a story that needed to be told, just in case it had anything at all to do with Jim's murder. "After that, I was free to live in San Francisco permanently. That was where I met Jim. He was doing some post-doc stuff at UCSF. We had only been seeing each other for a month when the local Yakuza boss of my father's faction asked to meet me."

The tea kettle began to shriek, giving me quite a start. With a hand on my chest, I walked to the stove to turn off the oven but didn't make any tea. I just turned off the stove and returned to my seat.

At that moment, nothing felt real. I had pins and needles in my limbs and my head was full of buzzing bees. I hugged my arms to myself and would have curled into a tight ball if I could have. Mr. Holmes was looking at me with curiosity but no judgment.

"What did the Yakuza want with you?" he asked. "Weren't they supposed to leave you alone after you...disengaged?"

I nodded. "My father was one of the most powerful men in the Yamaguchi-gumi clan and I was a girl of marriageable age. Having me for a wife would have been advantageous for a young, ambitious Yakuza.

"I had to escape. I had no choice. When Jim was offered a position in England, I asked him to take me with him. We were married shortly after."

Sherlock Holmes steepled his fingers under his chin and regarded me silently for a moment as if he were trying to determine the veracity of my story. "And the Yakuza didn't come after you here?"

I shook my head, remembering the first couple of years I had lived with Jim in Bristol. They seemed idyllic compared to what I'm living now. "For years, I watched my back, completely paranoid that I was being followed and that at any moment, my new peaceful life was going to be disturbed, but it never was. Jim and I had a good ten years before things started to go wrong."

I could hear the children cheering in the living room as well as the jovial voice of Mrs. Hudson. Within a few moments, the old woman was in the kitchen serving us our tea and tuna sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson," I said. "You didn't have to go through all this trouble."

"Please, dearie, it was my pleasure. It's been years since I had children under my roof. 221 Baker Street should be filled with love and laughter, not murder and mayhem." She tapped Sherlock Holmes on the shoulder as she said the last part, then left us alone once again.

"She's a very lovely woman," I murmured, picking up my tea to blow over the hot surface. "I shall hope to become very good friends with her."

"There isn't a more loyal friend than Mrs. Hudson," said Mr. Holmes, tracing the rim of his teacup.

"Have you known her very long?" I reached for one of the tuna sandwiches and bit into it. I didn't realize until then how hungry I was. It was very good. It had dill and bits of cucumber.

"Years and years," Sherlock Holmes replied. "I used to share 221B with John Watson before he left and married Mary."

"Oh, you were housemates with Doctor Watson. That's nice," I said inanely, unable to think of a thing to say, but unwilling to let the silence build between us. "Where did you meet?"

"Mrs. Carter, what are you doing?" Mr. Holmes leaned closer to me, his ice-blue eyes pinning me to my seat.

"Uh... getting to know you," I answered, leaning back as though that would get me the necessary distance away from Sherlock Holmes. "You're investigating my husband's murder. It's only fair that I know one or two things about you, shouldn't I?"

He relented and gave me a small smile. "You're one of those people who can't stand to have silences with others, aren't you? Why? What do you think would happen?"

I pushed away from the table, suddenly irritated and defensive. "Why are you interrogating me about this? It has nothing to do with the case."

He rose from the table and began to pace the small kitchen, like a restless black crow. "How did your husband get involved with the Triads?"

I felt stupidly helpless. I had no idea this side of Jim had even existed. I was with the man for ten years and never ever thought he'd be capable of getting involved with anything criminal. He wouldn't even illegally download music from the internet. I looked at my hands resting on the table. "You must know, Mr. Holmes, that I didn't realize any of this was going on."

He nodded in acknowledgment. "Were you having financial problems? Did your family have trouble making ends meet?"

"We're not rich, Mr. Holmes, but we had no trouble paying our bills or keeping a roof over our children's heads. I made a decent salary as an instructor and with Jim's pay, I thought we were doing all right." I exhaled heavily and resisted the urge to drop my head into my hands and cover my face. Instead, I propped my elbows on my thighs and leaned over to put my chin between my hands. "He never told me—he never said anything about having problems with money."

Mr. Holmes opened one of the cupboards, reaching for something placed on the highest shelf. He pulled out a flat bottle with amber-colored liquid in it and brought it back to the table, his mouth hinting at a smile as he sat. "Top shelf whiskey, Mrs. Carter. Literally."

"Okay, that's not mine," I said with a gasp, as I had never seen it before.

"Of course not," he replied with a smirk. "Mrs. Hudson used to be what they would politely call a dipsomaniac. She has bottles and bottles of the stuff hidden all over the place. Whenever I stumble upon one, I put it somewhere that she wouldn't be able to reach. I'm sure, by now, she has forgotten she even has them. Would you like some in your tea?"

I surprised myself with a chuckle and an assent. Why the hell not. I watched his hands as they uncapped the bottle. He had such long fingers. He reached over for my teacup, so he could pour a little more than a shot into it. "Come now, Mr. Holmes. Surely you aren't so obvious. Are you trying to get me pissed so I would be a more cooperative interviewee?"

He viewed me with interest as he also poured a dollop of whiskey into his own teacup. "Well, now. Why wouldn't you be anything but willing, Mrs. Carter? Have you something to hide?"

I sipped my tea and briefly closed my eyes, savoring the smooth burn of the whiskey as it slid down my throat. When I opened my eyes again, I saw that he had pulled his chair closer to mine—soundlessly, if you could believe that—and now seemed to be considering me intently with a vividly blue gaze. "Is it possible to hide anything from you, sir? I had the notion that it can't be done."

He looked at me strangely as though he couldn't quite decide what to make of me. His two, black eyebrows quirked together in the middle for a moment, then there was no expression on his face again. He only took his eyes off me when he drank his own tea and that was only for an instant. "We all have our secrets, Mrs. Carter. And the ones we really, really want to keep to ourselves— the ones we take to our graves, the ones we don't tell anyone about— those can be hidden, I think."

I found myself smiling at the odd detective. "Ah. Three can keep a secret if the other two are dead." I swallowed another mouthful of my black tea/whiskey mixture and allowed it to warm me like a hug from the inside. "Jim became really...reserved near the end there. Months before, I used to joke around that you couldn't shut the guy up if you threatened to staple his mouth."

"Your husband worked with opiates in the early days of his post-doc," Mr. Holmes said, running the tip of his index finger over the rim of his teacup. "His specialties were opioid receptors and their long-term effects on the nervous and neurological system, correct?"

"That's it," I confirmed, bringing my teacup to my lips, but not drinking. "I used to tease him about inventing non-habit-forming heroin that can be absorbed by the skin, so the addict wouldn't have to shoot up. I told him we'd make billions!"

Mr. Holmes gave me a considering look, then his reverse smile, which I found very unnerving. "A brilliant invention that would be, indeed. But I don't think heroin dealers would be very happy about that, do you? They count on the business of repeat customers."

I shrugged. It was just a fun thought exercise that I used to play with my husband. "I don't really know what he was working on... near the end, there. He became really paranoid. He wouldn't let anyone down the basement and put a padlock on the door."

"Have you gone down there?" Mr. Holmes asked.

I laughed, but without humor. "To be honest, I haven't. Jim had been acting so strangely that I felt didn't know him anymore. I even had this crazy notion that I would find a freezer down there filled with frozen human body parts." I steepled my hands to cover my mouth and nose.

Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Did you think Dr. Carter was capable of anything like that?"

I started to shake my head, but stopped to think, rubbing the goosebumps off my upper arms with my hands. "The Jim I first met, no. But this Jim I've been hearing about... I don't know." I thought of Jim's kind, brown eyes and warm smile. He had been so good with the children. I couldn't imagine a more adoring father. "In the last few weeks that he was alive, it was like he didn't even know us anymore."

The detective regarded me with cool, blue eyes that revealed nothing. We were silent for what seemed like several minutes. "Do you like chips?" he asked suddenly.

I blinked, startled at the intrusion of sound. "What?"

"Chips," he repeated. "I know a place a few blocks from here. We'd have to go for a bit of a walk, though. But they have the best chips in the city."

He wasn't even finished speaking when I started shaking my head to refuse him. "Absolutely not, Mr. Holmes. Aren't the children and I in hiding? I can't just go gallivanting around with you for chips!" But chips sound lovely, I secretly added. 

"No one expects to see you in this area of London, Mrs. Carter, much less with me. It's called hiding in plain sight," he reasoned, trapping me in the intensity of his deep, cerulean gaze. "I think you would benefit from a bit of a walk."

My mouth was suddenly arid and I was finding it hard to swallow. This was idiotic. We're supposed to be focusing on finding out who killed my husband and intended to hurt me and the children. "And the kids? Who will look after them?"

"Mrs. Hudson," he answered succinctly.

I scoffed, shaking my head. "Does the kindly, old Mrs. Hudson know you've already volunteered her services?"

Both sides of his mouth quirked upward to flash me a parody of a smile. "Of course. I spoke to her earlier and she was the one who insisted."

I bit down on my lower lip in indecision. Would this make me a horrible person?

I must have taken too long to answer because he added that we weren't just going out for chips, but stopping at the morgue to see his pathologist friend Molly Hooper, and then heading to the crime lab for a pop-in to say hello. I snorted in disbelief. Was the detective playing a game with me?

I looked at his beautiful, but all-too-serious face and saw sincerity. I could tell he wanted to solve this murder, too, if only to put another notch on his special consulting detective belt. My stomach growled in hunger and I was reminded I hadn't really had much to eat today besides the little tuna sandwich served by Mrs. Hudson and the tea and whiskey. "All right, I'll go with you," I found myself saying. "But I must feed my children first."

"Mrs. Hudson already has that taken care of," he said, standing up and holding out his hand to me. 

"I..." I placed my hand on top of his much bigger one and on contact, almost pulled it back right away. I had this feeling that I was being a horrible mother and deserting my children. "My kids, Mr. Holmes. If anything happens to them..."

He shook his head. "This flat is practically a bunker, Mrs. Carter. Not only have I had deadbolts installed on the door, I had the frame and the door itself reinforced with Grade-A steel. No one is getting past it besides you and me. I told Mrs. Hudson not to let anyone else in but you and me."

I allowed him to pull me up to my feet and immediately tugged my hand free of his grip to keep at my side. "Why are you doing all of this for us, Mr. Holmes?"

"Because I made a vow to your children that I will find their father's killer," he said solemnly. "I never go back on my word. I will never let anything bad happen to you and your children. You three are all under my protection."

I looked up at him. He was so much taller than me. "What is the worth of your word, Mr. Holmes?"

"My word is bond."


	4. Sherlock and Mrs. Carter Go Out for a Stroll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes Mrs. Carter to one of his informers and shows off his observation skills along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is narrated from a first person POV of an original female character

The children didn't even look up from their video games when I told them I was just stepping out for a bit with Mr. Holmes and would be returning immediately. Mrs. Hudson gave me an apologetic smile as if to say, "Oh, you know, kids..." I looked at Sherlock Holmes, but he was busy wrapping his scarf around his neck. He seemed so absorbed in it, like everything depended on him getting his scarf done just right. I thought this was a little weird, but what wasn't a little weird about Mr. Holmes? He helped me into my black pea-coat before he himself put on his suit jacket and his black leather gloves. He was slipping his arms into the sleeves of his overcoat as we made our way out of the building.

Sherlock Holmes moved as if the long ulster coat were a part of him. Whenever he turned, it swung like a cape, obeying him like a loyal dog on a leash. He was... just... infinitely cooler in it. As we walked away from the flat on Baker Street, he pulled up the collar of his coat, so that it perfectly framed his strange, angular face. I furtively looked around us. Were there cameras following us or something? Mr. Holmes moved and walked like he was in the middle of a fashion shoot. Stalked by cameras, he was deliberate and cool, and yet something told me that he was just naturally that... smooth. Slick. Like a well-oiled cybernetic being. It was cold, of course, and I cursed myself for not bringing a scarf.

He grasped my elbow as he guided me across the street and I tried not to jump at his touch. What was it about this man that made me so nervous? He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black knitted hat, which he handed over to me without a word. I muttered thanks as I put on the hat, thinking what a handy guy Sherlock Holmes was to have around. Ever since I met him, he had been five steps ahead of me. It was a little disconcerting, since I have always been able look after myself, but whenever I was with Sherlock Holmes, I was tempted to play the damsel in distress. It was disgusting.

He took my hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. He walked fast, he said, and knew where he was going, and definitely didn't want to lose me in the busy London foot traffic. As we passed people, he would point out random things about them that should have been impossible for him to know. I laughed, shaking my head. I didn't hesitate to call him out on it.

"Bullshit," I said in challenge. "How the hell could you tell from a five-second glance at that man that he is cheating on his wife with his secretary?"

He rolled his eyes and said something about the way the man was carrying the flowers he held in his left hand, the type of flowers he was carrying, his posture, the look of utter dread in his eyes at the thought of going home, and something about the mud splashes on the backs of his trousers. 

Once he pointed these things out, I saw them clearly myself. "Huh. Well. You're just a really observant person, then, aren't you? I thought you do something special to deduce these things."

He raised an eyebrow as he looked down at me. "Maybe I do. Most people see, but they do not observe. They never look below the surface."

I shivered upon hearing this and not from the cold. He was right. There are so many things in this world that we are so used to seeing, that they all kind of fall into the "ambient" background category and fade away from our consciousness. Most often, these things might be the very answers to what we're looking for, but our minds willfully ignore them. "Where are we going, Mr. Holmes?" I plunged my hands into my pockets and thankfully found some mittens in them, which I quickly put on.

"I've told you, Mrs. Carter, we are getting chips," he said cheerfully. "Not too far now. Just two more blocks after this one, then a left."

Along the way, he made a few more deductions about random people that we passed. Whether or not he was doing this for my amusement, I had no idea. He looked bemused every time I laughed, as though he didn't understand why I was laughing. Like when he pointed out that this staid-looking businesswoman in a navy-blue pantsuit sitting at a bus stop, reading an architecture magazine, is a secret dipsomaniac with a furry fetish. Or that this old man with a limp, wearing a snazzy purple fedora, was once a professional tango dancer and recently lost wife of forty years. He had to be making all this stuff up.

"That's very insulting, Mrs. Carter," he said with an outraged sniff. "What purpose would I have to spin such stories for you?"

I shrugged, unable to come up with an answer for him. "I don't know...maybe because I'm a widow who's been having a few shitty weeks and quite close to a nervous breakdown, so you're trying to distract me by making me laugh? Something like that."

He looked at me as though this thought had never even occurred to him. And probably didn't. "Hmm... I suppose that some people have idiosyncrasies that are a little funny and it amuses me to deduce them to a minute detail."

I bit my lower lip because I couldn't tell whether or not he was joking and I didn't want to laugh if he weren't. His delivery was perfectly deadpan-- but I've been noticing that that's just the way he talks. "Perhaps people don't like to be analyzed to the minutest detail, Mr. Holmes. It tends to make one rather uncomfortable."

I was so caught up in my conversation with him that I didn't realize that a woman with a giant pram, yakking on her mobile, was about to mow me down. He yanked me to safety just in time. I glanced up at him, feeling oddly stupid and bashful. "Thanks," I muttered, looking at my boots.

"My pleasure," he murmured, grabbing hold of my arm as we once again continued our pilgrimage to this place that supposedly served the best chips in London.

"Have you always lived in the city, Mr. Holmes?" I asked because I wanted to keep our conversation going.

He raised an eyebrow, but replied, "I was born and raised in the beautiful English countryside."

I thought of the Victorian townhouse in Castro Valley where I grew up when I had moved to San Francisco to be with my mother. I tried not to think of her too often, because the wounds in my heart were still fresh even though it had been eleven years since her murder. I put on a smile for the consulting detective who seemed to see through everything. "I bet you grew up in a house that had a name."

He laughed briefly. "Musgrave Hall."

"I knew it." I chuckled. "What happened to it? Is it still around?"

He was quiet for such a time that I didn't think he was going to answer. We walked in uncomfortable silence for a bit and then he said, "It burned down."

"Oh. " I didn't know what to say about that. He said it lightly, like it didn't matter, but I could tell it did mean something to him because it was the first time I saw Sherlock Holmes look uncomfortable. "That sucks. Sorry, man."

Suddenly, he put his hands on my shoulders and turned us about, guiding us to an alcove near an entrance to a used bookstore. Before I could ask him what was going on, he lowered his head and sealed his mouth over mine. I froze for a second, utterly shocked, but just as I was about to kiss him back, he lifted his head, blue eyes glittering with alertness.

"I spotted Finn O'Reilly across the street. He's a member of the Brotherhood, Bráithreachas. It was an old Irish fraternity that had a noble background in the seventeenth century, but the mantle was picked up by some two-bit thugs based in Dublin in the sixties and the gang has been steadily growing ever since. They traffic everything from heroin to child brides. Nasty bunch."

"Oh," was all I could say again as I struggled to get my bearings together. I almost lifted my hand to touch my lips. "Do you think they might have anything to do with Jim's death?"

"I'm not ruling anything out quite yet, Mrs. Carter. At one point, your husband was secretly auctioning off whatever it was he was working on. We could be talking about the Irish, the Japanese, the Triads, and London's own." He muttered a curse on the last one. "Pray to your deity that I'm wrong about the last one. They're still rather sore with me from the last time we tangled."

I tried to hide it, but I shuddered within my coat. I told the detective it was just the cold. Goddamn it, Jim, just how deep a hole did you dig yourself into? "Any chance the Russians are involved? Hey, how about the Italians?" I joked weakly. "Why should they be left out?"

Mr. Holmes seemed to consider that for a moment. "Those are also avenues we can explore. Good thinking, Mrs. Carter." He shoved me behind him so I was closer to the entrance of the bookstore and peeked around the glass display window. "All clear, he's gone. Come along now." He grabbed hold of my arm again and I had no choice but to go along or be dragged like a rag doll.

We reached the place with the chips, which was really no more than a food stall in the Borough Market. Mr. Holmes said he was to get free chips for life because he rescued the daughter of the owner from a gang of white slavery traffickers. Plus, he said (lowering his voice), Old Al used to run Camden. He was one of London's own. A real O.G.

Old Al himself is not so old. Mid-fifties, maybe, and had a head of thinning, graying, once red curls. He was a tall man, whipcord lean, and had a thick, red scar from his hairline, which went down between his left eye and nose before proceeding along his cheekbone and disappearing toward his ear. He had amber eyes that reminded me of a tiger's and I suspected one of them was glass. He looked like a man with whom one did not fuck.

His face lit up like Christmas morning upon seeing Sherlock Holmes. "Holmes, you mad bastard!" he cried joyfully, grabbing the detective for a manly hug. "How the feck are ye?"

You know the one: when a man grabs another man for an embrace and slaps him real hard on the back a few times at the same time. I'm hugging you, but I'm hitting you, too. 

Old Al released Sherlock and took a gander at me. His face remained impassive as he studied me and I knew he was assessing if I were friend or foe. When you lived a life like Old Al's, old habits never really died. "You got a new lady, Holmes?"

To my surprise, Sherlock Holmes said, "Yes, I suppose I do." He reached for my hand and tugged me forward. "This is Karen. She's magnificent." He put his arm around me.

My mouth dropped open for half an instant, but I quickly recovered and turned to Old Al with a bright smile. "Hello, it's nice to meet you." I held out a hand for the older man to shake.

But Big Al instead took my hand gently and kissed the tips of my fingers. "You have a good man there, my lady. You better take great care of him."

I could only nod. Sherlock led us to a table with a bench connected to it. We didn't have to wait long until we had a veritable feast of fresh, deep-fried chips in front of us. Old Al gave us tomato sauce, sweet curry, and brown gravy for dipping. He asked if I wanted a dollop of shredded cheddar cheese on top of my chips, but I laughingly refused. He served the chips with a pitcher of good, old Newcastle. Mr. Holmes and I ate companionably in silence for several minutes. I was ravenous. I thought I might have inhaled about two kilos worth of chips.

"You were right," I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin.

"I'm almost always right," he said before taking a drink of his beer. "About what?"

I took another chip and dragged it across the glob of sweet curry on my plate. "These are the best chips in all of London."

He smiled slightly. "Better than your American French fries?"

That surprised a chuckle out of me. "I haven't a clue. I haven't had any French fries in more than a decade. Shall we visit a Mcdonald's and find out?" I heard myself saying these things and groaned inwardly. What was wrong with me? Was I really flirting with this man? _Stop it, Kayako. You're being gross._

"Perish the thought," said the detective with a dramatic shudder. "Will you stay here a moment, Mrs. Carter? Try not to wander about. I need to have a few words with Old Al."

When he was gone, I realized how vulnerable I was out in the open. I was a sitting duck. I felt a million eyes around me, each one malevolent and belonged to someone intending to do me harm. I was unarmed. There could be someone now pointing a rifle at me high up from a window across the street, just waiting to blow my brains out. Oh, God. I knew this was a bad idea. Who's going to take care of my children? I scanned my immediate area for the best place to hide.

When Mr. Holmes put his hand on my shoulder, I almost broke his wrist. He must have pretty quick reflexes himself, for he was able to counter my attempt to flip him over my head. I took a deep breath and slowly released it as I tried to center myself. 

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have surprised you," he said softly. "All right, Mrs. Carter?"

I hugged my arms to my chest and felt like an idiot for the tenth time that day. Cold-stone killer, my ass. Six confirmed kills, by the way, by the age of seventeen. And yet suddenly, I'm a kid barely out of school. "All right, Mr. Holmes. What did Old Al have to say?"

His eyes crinkled at the sides as he smiled. "We don't have to worry about the Italians, the Russians, and the English." He held out his fist for me to bump. 

I closed my hand into a fist and touched it briefly with his. "What's next?"

His expression seemed to change as he studied my face. "Well, I meant for us to go see Molly Hooper, my pathologist. But you don't look like you're up to it. Shall we walk back to the flat?"

I sighed, nausea roiling in my stomach. "Why do you want to see the pathologist?"

"There are some personal effects of Dr. Carter's at the morgue that you might want to claim," he replied frankly. "And Molly has him on the slab right now. I figured I should have you around, just in case I have questions I need answered immediately."

I covered my mouth as I stared at him in disbelief. "I don't think I can go with you, Mr. Holmes. I think I'll just return to the flat now. I'll take a cab, if you don't mind."

He regarded me for a moment, then nodded. "I'll escort you back to the flat, but yes, we'll take a cab back. You look just about ready to collapse. You're looking a little green."

Somehow, I managed a smile. "Thanks."


	5. Mrs. Carter Visits 221B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to sleep, Kayako Carter visits Sherlock in his flat and the two of them come across the first big break in the case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is narrated from the first person POV of an original female character

I couldn't sleep last night. Not all the way through, anyway. After I fed the children supper courtesy of a casserole provided by the lovely Mrs. Hudson (I was beginning to owe the lady way too much), I put them to bed.

Timmy zonked out almost instantly, but Helena was older, and thus, had much more to process. She had a thoughtful look on her face as I tucked her into her brand-new canopy bed. She called it her princess bed. "Mummy, will we be staying here long? I rather like it here."

I was picking up her discarded clothes from the floor and sticking them in the hamper for washing. "Do you, Lena? It is rather nice, isn't it?"

She was cuddling Mr. Bunbun to her face, a pink plush rabbit with a bushy tail that she'd had as an infant. We had left it at the house. It wasn't here earlier. Who retrieved it and made sure Lena got it? "I think it smells like an old castle or a cave, but I feel safe here. Mr. Holmes says he lives just right upstairs and will watch over us."

I stared with fascination at the pink rabbit and shook my head. Sherlock Holmes didn't seem to be the kind of man who would care whether or not a little girl had her favorite stuffed bunny. "Well, that's lovely of him to say. And he has been very kind, helping us find this place to live in."

"I wish Mrs. Hudson were my real grandmother," my daughter said with a yawn as she turned on her side toward the wall, cuddling Mr. Bunbun. Soon, she would be zonked out, too.

I didn't know what to say about the whole Mrs. Hudson thing, so I said nothing. Instead, I dropped a kiss on her cheek, wished her good night, and closed the door, leaving it open just a crack.

Jim's parents weren't bad people. They were just very reserved and not too affectionate. They gifted the children with boring things such as socks and mittens and visited us in London very rarely. They also lived in Bristol, just a few kilometers from Jim's sister Diane. They had a house full of breakables and the children were really only allowed in the salon.

God, I still have to tell them about Jim. I bit my lip as unshed tears burned my throat. Or maybe the New Scotland Yard already has. Hopefully. I hadn't heard from them at all...and then I realized I must have left my mobile at the house.

I just finished taking a very long, very hot shower and now applying moisturizer to my face. I had always looked youthful. People would think I was younger than twenty-five when I was closer to thirty-five. But not now, I think. The last several days have taken their toll on my looks and I looked every year of my age and then some. There were dark, purplish bags under my eyes and I had lost some weight, so my cheeks looked sunken, like I was just recovering from a really bad bout of the flu.

I went to the bookshelf to find something to read that would help me unwind from my day and perhaps allow me to sleep. My gaze landed on Madame Bovary. Good enough, I thought. I had started to read it in college, but somehow never got around to finishing it.

The prose was divine and I found myself re-reading passages so I could savor the words. As a younger woman, I thought of Emma Bovary as insipid and shallow, whose passions seemed to have no tether, which later proves to be her undoing. And yes, she was all of these things, but when I started thinking about the last few months before Jim and I were estranged, I understood this burning need that she had for something more, something grander. Like Emma, I had married my husband seeking to escape a life in place of a new one.

And that was just a little too heavy for me after the day I'd had, so I closed the book, put it on my nightstand, and turned off the lights.

There was something interesting about sleeping in between the sheets that Sherlock Holmes may have picked and deliberated upon, himself. Did he consider what thread count I would find comfortable? Was his choosing of the firmness of the pillows arbitrary or did he imagine I was a side sleeper and chose accordingly? These were the things floating wrong in my consciousness as I drifted off to sleep.

I knew right away I was dreaming. I was in some dimly-lit garage thing and there was a man in front of me on his knees with his back to me. In my black gloved hand was the very first gun I ever owned, a Browning .385, a bit of a hand cannon, really. At the time, I wasn't being taught subtlety; no, the object lesson was to observe how quickly a man could change his mind about something when he had the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head. It was not until the man began to whimper and plead for his life that I realized it was Jim.

I bolted up awake in my bed, struggling to catch my breath and soaked in sweat though my room was as cool as a tomb. I grabbed the tumbler of water I had placed on my bedside before getting in bed and guzzled down half of it.

I flicked on the lamp. I considered reading some more until I fell back asleep. I considered the half a pack of cigarettes I had stashed in the secret compartment of my purse and felt like I might die if I didn't have a smoke. Goddammit.

Climbing out of bed, I grabbed the terrycloth housecoat from the back of my bedroom door and the cigarettes and lighter from my purse. Just to be safe, I took my two butterfly knives along with me, sticking my loot in the pockets of my housecoat. After checking in on the kids and seeing they were both actively catching their zees, I proceeded up the little stairs to the front door and let myself out to the common foyer that all the units shared. The clock on the living room wall had told me it was one forty-five in the morning.

I saw a lone figure sitting on the staircase that led up to 221B and even in the shadows, I could recognize the sharp profile of Sherlock Holmes. He didn't seem surprised to see me up and about and merely nodded at me when I put my foot on the first step up.

I was wearing only a blue satin nightie under the housecoat and felt unaccountably shy. I wondered briefly who it was that picked the nightie that fit perfectly. "Can't sleep, either?" I asked by way of greeting.

In his hand was an old, seemingly well-worn book that I thought said Shakespeare on the cover, but like some magic trick, it quickly disappeared into the inside pocket of his burgundy dressing gown, before I could confirm. "I don't need a lot of sleep," he said. "There are much more interesting things to do than lying around, helpless and unconscious for a few hours."

Once again, I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. I sheepishly pull out my pack of smokes and do a weak, little wave with it. "I was wondering if you think it'd be safe to go out back and have one."

"No need to go outside," he said with a small smile. "We could go up to my flat and you could do it there. I'll just open the windows."

I swallowed nervously. This was ridiculous. He offered nothing romantic, so I saw no reason why I should be acting the ninny. He was merely inviting me up to his flat so I could have a safe place to smoke a cigarette. But it had been a while since I went somewhere alone with a man who wasn't my husband that I found the thought rather disconcerting. 

"I should like that, I think," I murmured as he continued to regard me with those unnerving blue eyes that saw everything. "I appreciate it."

He rose from his perch and turned away without saying another word. I followed his tall, lean form up the staircase, which ended in a small landing and only had one door. He opened the door, allowed me to pass, and then walked in after me, leaving the door open.

The atmosphere of the flat could only be described as controlled chaos. It was a bit of a mess, but there seemed to be a rhyme and reason to the scramble that I hadn't yet figured out. There was a Victorian-style couch, an old coffee table that might have been nice once but was now pretty scratched up, and two armchairs on either side of the coffee table. I made note of the sideboard which was filled with different bottles of hard liquor and various spirits just by the door. A few feet in front of the coffee table was a lone chair upon a circular rug. And then there were two more armchairs facing each other, just right in front of the fireplace. The mantel atop the fireplace had a couple of picture frames on top, one picturing a married couple in their wedding finery and the other, a baby in one of those studio shots wearing a sailor outfit. They all looked like nice, perfectly happy people. Above the fireplace was a yellow circle that seemed to have been spray-painted on the wallpaper and there appeared to be two bullet holes within it. 

There was a small kitchen with an island, but it was full of stuff and there wasn't a surface area available. It occurred to me in horrified fascination that the implements were not cooking kinds, but more of the mad scientist chemistry lab stuff variety. Mr. Holmes could be making crystal meth to make extra money and I wouldn't know. There was also a small dinner table, but that too was full of stuff like books, maps, a laptop, and a pile of newspaper articles.

Just off to the side of one of the armchairs was a violin, which I recognized as a genuine antique. A Stradivarius. Next to it was a music stand with sheets on them, the music looking like it was handwritten. Did he compose music, too? I slid a sidelong glance at Mr. Holmes who had settled himself on one of the armchairs, the one facing the streets, and steepled his hands under his chin, appearing to be in deep thought.

It was a warm, balmy night in London, considering the cold weather for the last few days, so I was comfortable with opening a window as it didn't appear that my host was going to since he seemed settled in his chair. I stuck the darling cigarette between my lips and sparked the tip with my lighter, cradling my palm over the flame. My first, deep drag of the nicotine in weeks felt like a man's hands sliding up my hips to cup my breasts, flicking my nipples with his thumbs. Oddly specific, I know.

I closed my eyes for an instant and when I opened them, Sherlock Holmes was running his long, graceful fingers over what looked to be a medium-sized crystal ball. Was this how he solved his cases, then? I smiled to myself as I released the smoke through my nose.

It took me a moment to realize that it was a snow globe of sorts and had a little pink thing inside it. My heart stopped as my mind's eye identified what it was. My mother had given it to me as a welcome present when I first moved in with her as a girl to San Francisco from Okinawa.

It is a little black-haired ballerina wearing a pink and silver tutu in an Arabesque pose. Instead of snowflakes, she had multi-colored shiny hearts and stars floating around after you shake it. The song was "Beautiful Dreamer." It was the only thing of my mother that I had left.

It disappeared about a year ago and I was devastated. I had no idea where it went. Jim was convinced someone broke in and stole it. I thought this was rather absurd because nothing else in the house was stolen and its only value was sentimental. I even suspected my little girl of taking it. She liked to play with it, even though she wasn't supposed to. I thought maybe she may have taken it and accidentally broke it, then disposed of the evidence, so she wouldn't get in trouble. It didn't even occur to me to wonder if a five-year-old would be capable of executing such perfidy.

And now, here it was, being caressed by Sherlock Holmes, looking so shiny and brand-new. I propped the cigarette on the sill and forgot all about smoking. I wasn't aware that tears were rolling down my eyes as I approached him and sat on the ottoman where his long legs were resting. "Where did you get that?"

He looked up as though he had just realized I was there and wound up the key on the bottom of the snow globe. The soft strains of the "Beautiful Dreamer" filled the silence between us and we both watched as the ballerina in the middle went round and round and round. He reached out and placed the snow globe in my hands. "I found it in your basement. Did you know he had a safe there? It was just one of those portable ones, a foot by foot."

I shook my head as I continued to watch the ballerina, my eyes still burning with tears. "I... I didn't know what was down there..." I said, feeling hollow inside. Jim had it all along. He knew what it meant to me and how upset I was when it had gone missing and he had it all along.

"It seems to have a secret compartment," the detective said softly, pointing to a tiny keyhole along the side of the heavy brass base. "I wanted to wait until I was with you before I opened it."

"I don't have the key for it," I said, even as I realized that it was an easy enough lock to pick. 

He furnished a paper clip he had straightened out and inserted it into the keyhole. Within seconds, there was a click, indicating that the lock had been sprung. He pressed a tiny latch under the keyhole and a small drawer shot forward with a folded paper on it. He looked at me grimly and stopped me when I tried to reach for it.

"Fingerprints, Mrs. Carter," he muttered in exasperation as if he thought he shouldn't have to remind me of such a mundane detail. He put on his black leather gloves, which he pulled out from the pocket of his dressing gown. Carefully plucking the neatly folded notebook paper from the drawer, he set about flattening it on the ottoman next to me and ordered me to grab the torch by the fireplace, which I shone directly at the note.

My heart was beating in my throat as he and I read it together.

"Dear Kayako," it said. "By the time you read this, I'll most likely be dead. I'm sorry for being an utter failure as a husband and father. But I was a damn good scientist. Do you remember the treasure we often talked about that I said would be best left undiscovered? Well, it has never been like me to leave things well enough alone. I succeeded. I did it. Eureka!

"And now I'm leaving this legacy to you. You can decide what you want to do with it. Me, I think you should destroy it. I've destroyed all of my notes, both physical and digital, leaving what's only on this micro-SD card. You can go to big Pharma, I suppose, and sell to them. You and the children will never have to worry money for several lifetimes, but I think the best thing to do is to destroy it. The egotistical scientist in me couldn't stand the idea of destroying all the information I had on the most groundbreaking invention in the last five hundred years, so I'm leaving it all to you. 

"I was initially cooking it for the Triads, but the Yakuza found out about it somehow and wants to corner the action. They said they will leave you alone for life and won't hurt us or the children, at all. And then there's the Irish. I'm really sorry I'm putting you and the children in harm's way because I was a coward and an idiot. I truly did love you, Kayako. Yours forever, Jim."

I pulled out the tiny, clear plastic bag that contained the micro-SD card and dropped it directly in the middle of the detective's waiting palm. Yeah, no. I wanted nothing to do with it. My first instinct was to burn it and the letter as soon as possible, lest they fell into the wrong hands. "That fucking bastard went ahead and actually did it," I whispered in awed anger, tears once again rolling down my face.

"You're talking about the... non-addictive heroin that can be ingested via percutaneous absorption, like a nicotine patch?" 

I wanted to slap my hand over his mouth and tell him to be quiet. There could be people listening to us right now. Jim was right. This was a goddamn breakthrough. And if it truly worked, it could be the most life-threatening invention to humans since the atom bomb.

I nodded, utterly horrified. "Let's destroy it."

The detective lifted one eyebrow. "What would be the fun in that?" He took the letter and returned it to its tiny folds. "These will be the key to bringing down the bastards who killed your husband, Mrs. Carter. Don't you want to find out who they are?"

"I don't really care who they are, Mr. Holmes," I replied hoarsely. "This isn't a game. I'm just trying to survive with my children. If Jim truly created what he said he did, we have to destroy it. It would be irresponsible not to. Imagine people taking heroin like it's goddamn aspirin."

"I'll hang on to them for safe-keeping for now," he went on as if I hadn't said anything. He closed his fist around the letter and the micro-SD card. "It'll be a lot easier to draw the rats out now that we've got what they want."

It occurred to me that a man with Sherlock Holmes' intellectual curiosity wouldn't be able to resist to find out if something like this could actually work. His eyes were suddenly a little brighter, practically sparkling. He was nearly vibrating with a zeal to power up and use that brain of his. I covered my mouth, wondering if I made a mistake trusting this man with a secret this big. Never mind my life—the very lives of my children depended on this.

"Mrs. Carter," he said after a moment. "Will you go back to your smoking station, look out the window, let me know if that Japanese gentleman leaning against the lamppost across the street is still there?"

My heart jumped up into my throat and felt the blood in my veins turn to ice. "What are you talking about? Somebody already suspects that I'm here with my children and watching the building?"

The detective shook his head and stood, walking up to the fireplace to pull out a very big knife someone had stabbed into the mantle. "No. He works for me. I have a network of eyes and ears throughout the city, Mrs. Carter. I will know right away if someone is watching you."

"How do you know he can be trusted?" I demanded. "Anyone can be bought these days."

Sherlock Holmes gave me that upside-down smile. "Kenji knows I'm scarier than a lot of the things that go bump in the night, Mrs. Carter. And if he betrays me, he knows I will find him wherever he goes and make sure he pays dearly for it."

I shivered as I studied the arrogant detective, from his smirk to the languid way he played with a very sharp knife as he leaned against the fireplace. Today, as one of the young officers escorted us from the motel to Baker Street, I was warned that Sherlock Holmes could be quite mad. His detecting skills were unconventional and more often than not, he crossed the lines of what was proper if he knew it would lead to the results he wanted. He had gotten a little worse, I was told, now that John Watson wasn't around all the time to control him the way only the good doctor seemed to be able to do.

"I told you I will protect you and your children, Mrs. Carter," he told me solemnly. "Just stay close to me and I swear upon my life, that I will do my best to keep you and your family safe."

He might be quite mad, I thought, but I believed him. Maybe I was mad, too. "All right, Mr. Holmes."


	6. Sherlock's Pathologist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes Kayako to meet Molly Hooper. Molly is currently working on Jim Carter's body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is narrated from the first person POV of an original female character

Molly Hooper was a white woman of average height, slender, had brown hair, and absolutely besotted with Sherlock Holmes. She looked to be about my age, but seemed very young... yet there was something in her brown eyes that said she had seen some shit that would make most grown men curl up into a ball and cry for their mummies.

Her gaze followed Sherlock around the room and she paid close attention to everything he said, even the tangential stuff that John Watson had given me tips on curbing.

Keep him on task, he said. Sherlock was liable to show off, go off on some tangent, get bored and just walk away. John's wife Mary said it was perfectly okay to give Sherlock a high kick to the face if I felt that he was getting out of control. Or shoot him, John said dryly, which made Mary laugh.

I got to know the Watsons over tea this morning when they dropped off Rosie for Mrs. Hudson to babysit because they were going to go have day-trip in Bath. I liked Mary immensely.

Sherlock, as it turned out, always needed a companion when he went out on his investigations. He needed a sidekick he could bounce ideas off of and explain to him human things he didn't understand and if you were pretty handy in a fight, you were definitely aces in Sherlock Holmes's book. John Watson was his constant companion for a time and the good doctor chronicled their adventures on his blog. I must confess that I spent half the night last night reading up half the entries.

These days, Sherlock told me, he preferred Mary as a companion because she was a contract killer at one point and was pretty smart to boot, so she was a good sidekick. I wasn't to tell John that, however, to spare his feelings.

I told him he was starting to sound like The Doctor after he revealed that even Molly accompanied him around one day. He gave me a very confused look and said, "Doctor Who?!" He didn't understand why I was laughing for a good five minutes, but I couldn't explain the joke as it wouldn't be funny anymore, so I didn't.

On our way out of the flat this morning, I asked if he thought Detective Inspector Dimmock of the New Scotland Yard might find this particular assignment insulting because he was basically just babysitting my kids right now, but Sherlock said Dimmock just closed a particularly difficult case and probably welcomed the opportunity to sit around, watch telly, and play video games. It was a holiday gig.

Molly's big, earnest eyes immediately stared at me and studied me the moment I walked into the lab with Sherlock Holmes. A sense of relief came over her face when Sherlock told her that I was Kayako Carter, the wife of the victim. What, was she thinking Sherlock would bring a date to a pathology lab? Okay, fine, he might. Did Sherlock even date?

I couldn't imagine the guy picking up a lady from her flat, taking her to a nice dinner, and dancing with her under the pale moonlight. I bet Molly Hooper would really like a night like that, though. She seemed the type. Would she ever get it from Sherlock Holmes? Probably not.

Ugh, I was the one who was supposed to keep Holmes on task, yet I was the one who kept getting distracted.

"Have you thought of funeral arrangements for once the medical examiner releases the body, Mrs. Carter?"

I was startled by this question because I hadn't even thought about it. It had been four days since I was told that Jim was dead and that he might have already been dead for several days before they found him.

"I don't think an open casket would be appropriate, do you?" I responded to Molly Hopper, who blushed and looked away. I didn't mean to sound snappy. "My husband didn't have any final directives, but I think cremation would be the prudent choice."

"Yes, of course," said Molly.

"What did you find when you searched the parts, Molly?" asked Sherlock.

Molly's gaze darted toward me. No doubt she was wondering how I was reacting to Jim being described as "parts." I thought all this time I could be nonchalant about it since I haven't truly loved Jim for a long time—not since he started cheating on me— but I couldn't even count on my tough pedigree to back me up on this.

I found myself suddenly in need of the rubbish bin, whereupon I proceeded to be thoroughly sick. I couldn't be stoic about it. For a lying, cheating husband, Jim was a rather nice person. No one deserved this, least of all the father of my children.

I vomited my breakfast of cereal, milk, and fruit. And the lovely coffee Mr. Holmes and I got at from a cart right outside the hospital. I threw up until there was nothing left but air.

All this time, I was dimly aware that someone was rubbing my back and holding my hair. I was hoping it wasn't Sherlock Holmes, as Molly Hooper looked like the type of person to hold someone's hair back while they are thoroughly sick.

But of course, it was Sherlock Holmes. He handed me a towel that he must have first ran through hot water and wrung because it was still pretty warm when I got it. I wiped my face with the towel as I staggered weakly away from the bin as the smell of vomit also made me want to throw up. Sherlock came to my side and helped me walk to a chair, whereupon he put his hands on my shoulders and guided me to sit down.

"I've called hospital maintenance to clean the mess up," said Molly. "I've got the stuff to make tea in my office. Would you like some?"

"Yes, Molly, Mrs. Carter would appreciate some tea. Thank you," Sherlock answered for me as I continued to blot my face with the warm towel.

"I'm sorry." To my mortification, I burst into tears right then and there. I had been saving all my crying in private, for I was taught that you should never show any sign of weakness to your enemies, but this was just too much.

"No, I'm the one who's sorry, " he says, crouched on the floor next to me so we were nearly at eye level. "I should have been more circumspect about my words."

I had the towel over my mouth, so he wouldn't smell my sour vomit breath. "You're ruining the image I have of you based on John Watson's blog."

He rolled his eyes. "It will follow me to the grave. And had, in fact."

"What do you mean?"

He shook his head and patted my shoulder. "You must not have gotten to that part of the blog yet. Spoiler alert."

He rose in that uncannily graceful way of his and began to pace in front of me. "Mrs. Carter..."

I didn't know what made me blurt it out just then. "Please call me Kayako."

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Do you know if your husband had other enemies, outside of the gangs that are after the formula? I'm speaking of an embittered former lover or a colleague he may have bested at work for a promotion?"

I thought of Suzie, the grad student he had an affair with. And Linda, the other grad student he had an affair with. There was also Dorcas, the colleague he had an affair with, whose husband divorced her after he found out about her and Jim. But it was Suzie who was particularly obsessed with him and had done some crazy shit as a reaction to Jim breaking up with her. She broke all the windows of his car, for his example, and slashed all his tires to ribbons. I relayed all of this to the detective.

"One does not usually graduate from vandalism to mutilation and murder," he said thoughtfully. "But it wouldn't be a bad idea to talk to her and the others. Your husband... he was unfaithful, why did you not leave him?"

I turned away from Sherlock Holmes and suddenly, the bad taste in my mouth wasn't just from the vomiting. How could I explain to him my near maniacal need for normalcy? Jim had provided me with what I considered to be normal: Husband, house, children. The perfect cover. I wasn't Tokugawa Kayako anymore, a killer and daughter of a Yakuza boss. I was a wife and mother. I became someone else. I liked wearing the Mrs. Kayako Carter costume. "The children needed a father. Jim was a shitty husband, but he was a good father" was the answer I settled for.

Thankfully, Molly Hooper came back just then with a tray of which there was a teapot, three mugs, as well as a carton of creamer and some packets of sugar. Sherlock took the tray from her and placed it on a counter near me. Molly looked at him like he gave her the sun.

Sherlock poured me a mug of tea and added the sugar and creamer without asking me my preference. He handed it to me and inclined his head challengingly.

I shook my head. Did everything have to be a game with Sherlock Holmes? I brought the mug to my mouth, blew across the surface, and took a wary sip. I raised my eyebrows. It tasted just like how I would have made it for myself. But I didn't want to necessarily inflate his ego any more than it was already, however. "Not bad," I said dryly.

He chuckled as he prepared his own tea. "So, Molly, what have you found?"

Molly looked cautiously at me, then back at Sherlock. As though stalling for time, she brought her mug of tea to her mouth and seemed to drink for a long time. Sherlock called her name and she jumped, setting down the mug on the counter. "Could I talk to you alone, maybe, Sherlock?" she asked him, casting a glance at me.

I understood this. Molly Hooper did not want to discuss in front of me how my husband was butchered. At the same time, I felt like I needed to hear. Like it was important for me to hear it. "Unless it's a personal matter, Dr. Hooper, I'd rather you discussed it in front of me."

Her reluctance was rational. I vomited in front of her and all Sherlock had to say was "parts." It was a rather visceral reaction, even I had to admit.

"If you're sure, Mrs. Carter," she hedged, taking another look at me before shifting her gaze back to Sherlock. "Well, I've discovered that Mr. Carter must have been already dead for a week before he was... dismembered. He was kept in a freezer, so he could have been dead for as long as ten days as there were some freezer burns where there wasn't decay."

I took a breath deeply through my nose and drank my tea. Nightmare material. I could do this. I could stand here and listen to every detail of this. At least I wasn't the one who had to go through it.

"All right, Kayako?" Sherlock asked, peering at my face.

I gave him a thumbs-up sign, which did not convince him at all. "Please, continue, Dr. Hooper."

"He was frozen when he was dismembered," said Molly. "The cuts were very clean, as though the material being cut was hard and packed, and I would put my money on a table saw. Freezing a body before cutting it up would also be a smart way to not get blood on everything."

I frowned as what felt like a memory brushed the back of my mind. The arid coldness of a meat locker, the whirring sound of a table saw, the image of big slabs of frozen meat being pushed through the saw, were somehow not unknown to me. Was this massacre on Jim perpetuated by the Yakuza, after all? If so, maybe I could get in contact with Yamaguchi-gumi and make some kind of deal. But to have that formula fall in the hands of the Yakuza... I shuddered at the thought.

"What did you find on the body, Dr. Hooper?" I demanded before Sherlock could ask the question.

"Not much, really," she said sadly. "The wallet was empty save for his driver license, a dry-cleaning claim ticket, and a crumpled yellow Post-it note with a Camden address on it. The perpetrators wanted to be sure that this man was clearly identified as Dr. James Carter."

I crossed my arm in front of my chest and propped the elbow of my other arm on it, so I could cradle my chin in my hand. "Huh. What did Jim have to have dry-cleaned? He dressed like a poor grad student. I think he, maybe, owned five button-down shirts and three nice trousers. And one suit." Seriously, the guy dressed like he crawled out of a dirty clothes hamper every morning. Jim could wear anything that was freshly pressed and cleaned and in twenty minutes, make them look like he had slept overnight in them.

"And the Camden address, Molly? Have you any idea if the Scotland Yard has already looked into it?" Sherlock asked. "Not that it matters if they have or not. They surely would have missed everything."

"I just sent my preliminary reports to Lestrade and Dimmock last night." Molly picked up her tea again and took a drink as if the act of talking had exhausted her.

Molly gave us copies of the driver license, dry-cleaning ticket, and address, as the originals have already been bagged and tagged as evidence and sent to the Scotland Yard.

"Thank you, Molly," said Sherlock. "I'd be nothing without my pathologist."

Molly blushed as red as a tomato and looked like she was going to pass out from excitement. I bowed my own thanks at the pathologist and quickly followed the tall detective as he strode down the hallway, adjusting his scarf.

"Nice lady, Molly," I said, keeping pace with Sherlock Holmes even though his legs were easily double the length of mine. "You know she's in love with you, right? You should ask her out. She's smart and pretty."

Sherlock gave me a sidelong glance. "Kayako, I've successfully avoided romantic entanglements for most of my adult life. I am married to my work. I focus all of my cerebral efforts on what I do best, which is solve crime. I have no use for sentiment or that infatuation feeling that seems to render every sane person stupid... well, stupider."

"Really?" I did not imagine him checking me out, did I? Goddamn it, why am I even focusing on this? I had to find the assholes who massacred my husband and want to kill me and my children, so I could put a stop to this shit. Sherlock Holmes was right. Love was for idiots.

He opened the door for me to exit St. Bart's and we walked out to the main street where he hailed a cab. Our first stop, he said, was the Camden address found on the Post-It note in Jim's wallet. I was more curious about the dry-cleaning because in the ten years I was with Jim, I had never seen him take anything to the dry-cleaners. But I was not the foremost world's consulting detective. I didn't even rank. Probably because I didn't have the cheekbones.

Sherlock Holmes and I stopped two blocks from the address, on the adjacent street. Sherlock said he knew a pub that was almost directly in front of this establishment and we could sit there for a while and watch the place. He said they had the best burgers in Camden. I asked if he had a lifetime supply of free beers and burgers from there, too, and he just laughed.

We went through the door in the back alley. The pub had a few customers, mostly regulars at the bar, Sherlock said. It was, after all, eleven o'clock in the morning on a weekday. Luckily, there was an open table right in front of the window with two bar stools. Sherlock met the eyes of someone behind me and did some finger signing. I raised my eyebrows. I was pretty sure he just placed our orders without consulting me.

This normally would have annoyed me, but I was amazed at the extent of Sherlock's network and how he seemed to have people everywhere. It was cool and creepy at the same time. "You didn't just order me haggis, did you?"

"Yep, with extra sauerkraut or whatever makes these things grosser," he replied with a small smile. He jerked his head toward the window. "Across the street is a newly-opened All You Can Eat Chinese Vegan Place."

I made a face that surely must have relayed my disgust. "What? These things shouldn't exist. Vegan Chinese food? Get the fuck out of here."

"So when did the Triads go on a health kick?" Sherlock's blue eyes sparkled with humor.

"Oh don't be racist," I said, smacking his arm on the table. "Just because it's a Chinese restaurant, doesn't mean they're automatically Triads."

"Save your outrage, Kayako. That bloke hanging out with a couple of those hipster twats in front of the restaurant has a tattoo that says '14K' on the back of his ear."

I covered my face with my hands and felt like screaming at the top of my lungs. Why?! Goddamn you, Jim. 14K was one of the biggest and most dangerous Triad organizations in the whole world. They were global-scale drug traffickers of heroin and opium that came out of China and other Southeast Asian nations. Their bigger moneymakers also involved: human and arms trafficking, prostitution, kidnapping, contract-killing, illegal gambling, and organ-jacking. Really, really pleasant sort of people.

"The most active Triad group in London right now is the Kim Shing Tong," Sherlock Holmes informed me as a server came around with our orders of burgers, chips, and ale. "There was a bit of a power vacuum after the death of General Shan of the Black Lotus Tong and the Kim Shing Tong emerged victoriously. Their leader is a Harvard-educated businessman called Lee Chung-Shing. Handsome. Very slick bloke. Never been indicted for anything."

I had to take a long, deep drink from my pint before I could speak. I opened my mouth to say something, changed my mind, and drank some more. By the time I was finished, my ale was down to a third. "Kim Shing Tong? Didn't they supposedly kidnap those four white girls from Cambridge a few years back and when the parents didn't pony up the ransom on time, the girls were found as drugged-out, messed up prostitutes in Manila months later?"

"That would indeed be the work of the Kim Shing Tong. There were no arrests, though. Not enough evidence. I was out of the country on assignment when it happened. I didn't hear about it until the girls were found. Before I could even look into it, I was ordered by the highest of authorities to leave it alone." Sherlock Holmes brought his own pint of ale to his mouth and drank as deeply as I did. "In fact, I am supposed to stay far, far away from Lee Chung-Shing."

We emptied our pints and Sherlock ordered another round. Our food remained untouched, as delicious as it looked. "Says who?" I demanded. "The bloody Scotland Yard?"

His blue eyes danced merrily, as he picked up a chip and shoved it into his mouth. "No, Kayako. Not the bloody Scotland Yard. The government."

There was something that he told Detective Inspector Lestrade on the night of the shooting, which basically blackmailed the man into releasing us into the custody of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had threatened Lestrade with his brother. "You said you could persuade your brother to get the MI-6 to take over in protecting us. Your brother works for the government?"

He gave me that upside-down smile that never failed to unnerve me. "More like the government works for my brother."

I whistled, impressed. The Holmes pedigree was something else. John had mentioned that Sherlock had a brother named Mycroft. I was asking him what kind of parents did they have that they could give such awful names to their children? John said I wouldn't meet more pleasant people and that Sherlock's mom was some kind of math wizard.

We sat at the window for two hours. I managed to eat half my burger and chips, but Sherlock merely nibbled on his chips. When I asked why he barely ate, he said he really couldn't eat much on the middle of an investigation because digestion slowed him down. I didn't know how to respond to this, so I said nothing.

Sherlock said we should check out the dry-cleaners next, but I told him I wanted to go back to 221 Baker Street for a spell, so I could check on my children. I expected him to balk at this, but he surprisingly did not.

We went through the back alley of the building because there was an entrance there. But the back of the building was protected by a smooth twenty-foot concrete and metal wall. Sherlock said he talked Mrs. Hudson into getting it built a couple of years ago to keep the undesirable riffraff out.

"Is there desirable riffraff?" I asked him quite earnestly.

I told him I could have scaled the wall easily in my younger days. I didn't expect him to ask me to prove it. I took off my coat and handed it to him.

I prayed I wouldn't embarrass myself. I backed up about fifteen feet, then took off on a sprint. I ran up the adjacent wall, sprang myself toward the other wall, then bounced back to the other to propel myself once again and this time managed to gain purchase of the top of the concrete wall. I pulled myself up so I was sitting on top of the wall and turned around to face Sherlock Holmes in the back alley. He wasn't there.

I heard a sharp whistle behind me and I looked over my shoulder to see that he had gone through the gate, which was at the side, and was now on the other side of the wall.

He gave me a little salute.

I jumped down from the wall, landing softly on the balls of my feet and the tips of my fingers. I straightened up slowly, careful not to let the detective know that the landing kind of hurt my back and hips. It had been a while since I broke in somewhere.

Sherlock followed me down the hall to the common foyer that all the units shared and opened the door to 221C for me. For a brief moment, I had a vision of my children cut up to pieces with their limbs spread out every which way and blood spattered all over the walls.

I took a deep breath and blinked. Helena was sleeping on the couch, but my son was sitting on the floor with Detective Inspector Dimmock with video game controllers in their hands and intense concentration on their faces.

"Mummy, we're playing Mario Kart!" Timmy said without looking up from the screen.

Dimmock was just as riveted with the game. "Hello, Mrs. Carter, Holmes. Mrs. Hudson has fed us lunch. There's leftovers in the kitchen, if you want some."

I turned to Sherlock. He shrugged. I laughed. 


	7. The Music of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to sleep, Kayako once again visits Sherlock in his flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Ed. Note: This chapter includes adult situations and depictions of sexual intercourse. If this will offend you, please do not proceed)
> 
> This story is narrated from the first person POV of an original female character

I had another one of those awful dreams again. This time, I was sixteen years old and doing some contract work for my father. 

You know how some kids who only mostly see their dads during summer break, like, awkwardly hang out with their father by going on weird road trips, bowling, fishing, camping, and other bonding shit like that? Yeah, I never had any of that. By the time I was eleven, I was a junior marksman. By thirteen, I could easily break into houses and cars and take down adult men. By fifteen, I already had three confirmed kills and was nearly an expert at getting the drop on people and taking them out before they even realized what hit them. 

This particular hit was ordered by a very wealthy young woman who was tired of her mooching, deadbeat husband. Two shots to the back of the head while he was in the backroom of his favorite hostess bar. When the guy fell over and I saw his face, I screamed when I realized it was Jim.

I had fallen asleep in the living room on one of the couches while watching an episode of "Doctor Who." I looked up at the telly and switched it off when I saw that it was a rerun of the old Star Trek. Goddamn Jim was a huge Trekkie. He actually mourned the death of Leonard Nimoy, who played Spock, and I didn't think I saw him that upset when his grandfather died. 

I could use a drink. I didn't have any liquor in the house, since Sherlock took along with him the bottle he found in the kitchen. 

A-ha, Sherlock. I pictured the assortment of booze the man had laid out on his makeshift bar. One drink, I told myself. 

And I'd be carrying the baby monitor with me. Sherlock had installed security cameras in the children's bedrooms from each corner of the ceiling, as well as a little monitor that allowed me to hear them from the range of one thousand meters. 

In my room, I had two large screens that showed me the views of the eight cameras. One screen was for Lena's room and the other one for Timmy. With a few clicks on the computer, I could also view the cameras of the kitchen, living room, the hallway to the rooms, and the one right above the front door. I didn't even want to think of the fortune spent on putting these things in place. I was just grateful they were there. 

John Watson told me not to be surprised if Sherlock had cameras in my bedroom. I had nothing to worry about, he said, about Sherlock being a pervert over anything he saw and joked that he was pretty sure the consulting detective wouldn't know what to do with a live naked woman. Mary thought I should put on a show one night to see what would happen. 

Oddly enough, I felt more secured knowing that Sherlock was probably watching me closely. That meant someone would know if something happened to me. I didn't even mind all that much if he had seen me naked. My only hangups about my body were over my tattoos and he had already seen those.

I would feel differently, however, if anyone in the New Scotland Yard had access to these cameras. 

I put on my house-coat and picked up the baby monitor, slipping it into the pocket. I also took the house keys and my butterfly knife. I let myself out of our unit, triple-checking that the four deadbolts were secure. I heard the soft strains of a violin as I walked toward the stairs that led up to 221B. 

Sherlock was awake. I knew he would be awake, or otherwise I wouldn't bother going up to his flat, but it was nice to hear a confirmation of it. 

The melody, unfamiliar to me, was contemplative and heartbreaking. It spoke of tears and horror and loss and betrayal and regret. It was so haunting in its beauty that it was almost hard to listen to. 

I stood at the doorway of the detective's flat and watched him for a moment. He was sitting by one of the windows, playing his violin, and looked like some tragic prince from a Shakespearean play. Wearing a royal blue dressing gown with a white shirt underneath and his thick, wavy hair in disarray, he made quite a picture. 

"I thought you might come," he said, setting down the violin. "Why are you just standing there? Walk all the way in." 

I gave him a half smile and headed straight for the liquor table. My hand shook as I poured myself a shot and a half of whiskey. I brought my snifter to the armchair facing the windows, which I understood to be John Watson's customary spot. 

I took out the baby monitor from my pocket, turned it up, and set it down on the small table next to me. I couldn't really hear anything but the humming of the air-conditioning in the children's bedrooms. All was quiet.

Lena and Timmy were adjusting quite well to their temporary home. They loved Mrs. Hudson, the Watsons, and Detective Inspectors Dimmock and Lestrade. They told me they never ever want to leave. 

Mrs. Hudson had been a mainstay at the house lately. She genuinely enjoyed the company of the children. Sherlock said she had a daughter in America with children she had never met because she and her daughter were estranged. Sherlock said Mrs. Hudson had a complicated past and because of that, her grown children wanted nothing to do with her. 

I couldn't imagine what it was that Mrs. Hudson would have done to make her children hate her, but I was concerned enough to ask if my own kids would be safe with her. Sherlock said Mrs. Hudson would die protecting my children. 

It was probably due to her influence that Lena and Timmy had been so much more manageable these past few days. They ate when I told them to, brushed their teeth, and resisted only a little when I told them it was time to turn off the telly and go to bed. 

They had been complete angels. 

Well, not completely. I did come home the other day to Lena with gum all over her hair and Mrs. Hudson trying to remove it with peanut butter. And Timmy deciding to give himself a haircut. He was also sporting a black eye because he and Lena had been fighting over a video game controller, both tugging and pulling at it, when Lena suddenly let go, so her brother got socked in the eye. When I asked why they were fighting over a controller when there were two, they both admitted that the one they were fighting over was the good one. I asked what made it the good one and they said it was the one Detective Inspector Dimmock usually used. 

I sipped my whiskey and contemplated the future of my children. They seemed to develop little "crushes" on any available older male figure they had in their lives. Jim had started out as a good, caring father, but near the end, he became irritable and dismissive. The children were missing him very much. Would they now look for their father in the other men I might encounter and bring home later in life? 

The detective picked up his violin once again and began to play his mournful song. I closed my eyes and laid my head back against the headrest, only occasionally raising my head again to sip my drink. I allowed Sherlock's music to seduce me, pretended his musical notes were his hot breath on my skin as he kissed every inch of my naked body, from head to toe, being very thorough and not missing a thing. Under my nightshirt, my nipples pebbled and my breathing became a little hitched. 

I didn't know what it was about this man that made me feel this way... so wanton, so needy, so grasping. He had turned me into something rapacious and love-starved, desperate and practically begging for him to touch me, though these pleas would never be voiced out loud. I wanted him to dominate me and conquer me and own me. It was nothing I had ever felt before. I had always believed in my own strength and agency. But this man made me feel... weak and I liked it. 

The violin playing stopped and I opened my eyes, releasing the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. He set the violin down in its stand once again and I watched as he unfolded himself gracefully from his perch by the window and crossed his living room until he was standing right in front of me, majestic and imposing like an emperor. I was half-expecting him to hold out his hand to me and make me kiss his signet ring. 

Instead he just offered his hand to me, palm up. I glanced up at his beautiful face and found it devoid of any expression. I searched his deep, blue eyes, but found nothing. More than anything, I think this was what swayed me to take his hand and allow him to lead me to his bedroom. 

His room, in contrast to the rest of the flat, was quite spartan. There was only a neatly made queen-sized bed within a dark wooden frame and next to it was a floor lamp. If there were windows, I couldn't tell because the wall facing the bedroom door was covered by heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes the color of blood, most likely designed to keep the light out. 

I was about to ask him something when he put a finger over my lips and shook his head. He then proceeded to strip me of my housecoat, which he hung on a peg behind the closed bedroom door. My nightshirt, he just pulled over my head and dropped on the floor. 

Suddenly, I was standing in front of this strange man in only my bikini briefs and realized that I wasn't afraid. He hadn't kissed me yet and I was already half-mad in anticipation, wondering what his soft, full lips would feel like against my own, what his tongue would taste like. 

He unclasped the clip that kept my hair out of my face and allowed the lot of it to come cascading down my throat and shoulder, covering my breasts. Tenderly, he brushed it back to unveil them. Once they were revealed to him, he traced the shape softly with his thumbs, swiping underneath, then returning to the surface to circle my nipples. I was almost panting in anticipation of him touching them, but he didn't. 

Instead, he swept me up easily into his arms, as though I weighed nothing, and pulled back the covers from his bed. He set me down on the mattress almost reverently with my head on a pillow. When I opened my mouth to say something, he put his finger to my lips and shook his head again. 

Next to the bed, he took off his blue dressing gown and white shirt, leaving on only black drawstring cotton trousers. He was very lean, but corded with muscle, and very pale. He had no hair on his chest. The only hair on his torso was that trail that started below his navel and went all the way down past the waistband of his trousers. 

I looked at the bulge tenting the front of his trousers and swallowed hard. He was rather impressive in that area and it had been so long since I had a man inside me. I imagined the sweet-hot invasion of his flesh plunging into me and bit down on my lower lip to keep myself from moaning out loud. 

He began by kissing the top of my left foot, just pressing his hot mouth on my skin, and pecked his way up to my ankle. From there he began to use the tip of his tongue. Lifting my leg, he traced a path up my calf, my knee, up my thigh, getting closer to where I needed him: that pulsing heat between my legs. 

When he reached the spot where my thigh met my pelvis, he lifted his head and proceeded to take off my bikini briefs, hooking his long fingers into the waistband. Ever so slowly, he dragged them down the length of my legs and pulled them off my feet. 

For a moment, he only looked at me, studying me as if he meant to draw me or something, then he gently parted my legs, and lowered his head to nuzzle my pubic area. I gasped upon feeling his hot breath there and moaned out loud when the tip of his tongue bumped my needy, aching bud. He swiped it once, twice. 

And then he moved on, planting kisses along my pubic bone and up my pelvis, toward my waist. I almost cried out in frustration that he didn't give me the release that my body was clearly begging for. He dragged his open mouth up the side of my body, up my ribcage, and finally to my breast. 

When he drew my nipple into his mouth, I thought I was going to die. He suckled so strongly that I could feel the sensation in my toes. I lifted my arms from my sides and buried my fingers in his thick, lush hair, so I could hold him there, but that made him stop instantly. 

He lifted his body from mine and reached down toward the floor for his dressing gown. I thought at first that the fun naked times were over and felt like crying, but he was only pulling out the belt of the dressing gown. Astride me, he held the blue silk taut between his large hands and stared into my eyes. 

I nodded and lifted my arms up toward the headboard. He glanced down at me and lifted one eyebrow. I nodded again. Quickly and efficiently, he wove the belt through the railing and tied up my hands securely, but not tight enough to hurt. I tested them, gazing into his eyes as I did so, and the knots held very well. 

He gave me a half-smile that seemed to indicate satisfaction as he laid his body down on the mattress beside mine. He continued his sensual assault on my breasts, pushing them together and sucking and licking the nipples alternatingly. Soon he moved on to my chest, then my throat and neck, licking and biting my ears. I was a quivering mass of gelatin at this point and just as useless, biting down on my lower lip so I wouldn't make any noise. 

As he feasted on the flesh of my throat, one of his hands began a quest down my body, stroking my ribcage, my stomach, sweeping down to my inner thighs, then back up toward my molten core. When his fingers touched my mons, my pelvis shot up from the mattress and he patted me back down, soothingly caressing my pubic bone. 

He lifted his head from my neck and started to kiss my jaw, my cheeks, my forehead, the bridge of my nose, and the corner closest to my mouth. With the tip of his tongue, he traced the shape of my upper and lower lips, but pulled back when I tried to kiss him. He nudged the tip of my nose with his and when he was assured he had my attention, shook his head again. 

But then I remembered that we had briefly kissed once, when we were hiding from that Irish gang member. He had pulled away then, too, just as I started to kiss him back. 

To my relief--though not by much-- he moved away from my mouth, kissing his way down the side of my neck, my clavicle, and back to the valley between my breasts. I savored the sensation of his soft lips brushing my skin in feather-light sips and breathed in the smell I've come to associate with Sherlock Holmes: a combination of gun oil, bourbon, tobacco, oranges, sandalwood, and leather. It made my head swim and my need for him all the more intense. 

His mouth closed around my nipple at the same time that one of his long fingers entered me. I couldn't help the moan that escaped my mouth. As quick as a snake, his free hand slapped over the lower part of my face and he sidled up beside me so that we were eye to eye. 

"Shhh," he whispered, bringing up the fingers he'd been using to play with me. Without looking away from me, he licked and sucked them clean. 

The burning, cramping heat beneath my navel got even worse. I looked at him pleadingly over the hand covering my nose and mouth. I licked his palm and his blue eyes glittered with an emotion I couldn't recognize. Whatever it was, he set me free. After kissing both of my eyelids shut, he returned his head to my breasts, his seemingly hungry mouth seeking out my nipple to suckle. 

Meanwhile, his hand descended once again to where I needed him most and without warning, plunged two fingers inside me. I gasped in surprise, but he didn't cover my mouth again. I had to bite down on my lower lip as he began to scissor his fingers open and close within me, loosening me up. 

I wish my hands were free so I could touch him and return the pleasure he was giving me. It wasn't fair that I was the only one suffering this tormenting ecstasy. 

I nearly lost my mind when he switched to an in-and-out motion with his fingers. Soon my hips were rising and falling in sync with his movements and I knew my orgasm was very close. 

That was when he stopped. He looked up at me again and licked his fingers once more. I was breathing hard and pretty sure very nearly close to tears. He slid even lower down the mattress and placed himself between my legs. 

I wondered why his pants were still on. It was clear from the way the material was tenting that he had quite an erection. My mouth watered at the thought of sucking it or fucking it or whatever he allowed me to do with it. 

To my surprise, he lifted both of my legs and draped them on each of his shoulders before he palmed my buttocks and raised my hips to bring me to his mouth. Relentlessly, he lapped at my clitoris with the flat of his tongue until the bones in my legs turned to water. 

At this point, I had turned my head and managed to catch the corner of the pillow my head was on with my teeth. It was better that I bit into that instead of my tongue or my lower lip. 

As I started to come, he began to lower my hips toward the bed until my butt was back on the mattress and he was lying on his stomach. Not once did he lift his head from between my legs nor did he ever stop licking. When I glanced down to see him kissing me so intimately and as intensely as Sherlock Holmes ever did anything, I came so hard that I was barely able to stifle the scream that bubbled up my throat. 

Even when my thighs closed around his head, he kept his palms on my butt and had my pelvis tilted toward him so he could keep licking. When he entered me with his tongue and swirled it around, I came a second time, this one stronger and deeper than the first. Still he kept licking and licking until it was too sensitive even for air. 

"Sherlock," I gasped. "Stop. It's too much. Please."

And he did stop. Not because I asked him to, but because I spoke. I broke the rule. For some reason, he wanted there to be no words or noise between us while we were making love. Or rather, while he was making love to me. 

He rose from between my legs, licking his lips and the immediate area around his mouth. Because of the intense look in his blue eyes, I found myself getting nervous. After all, I was still tied up and naked on his bed. I thought for sure he was going to take off his pants and we were going to have a round two. I was both delighted and scared over the notion. 

What he did next blew my mind way more than anything that just happened between us within the last hour. He sat next to me and reached over my head to untie me. Afterward, he pulled me up until I was sitting and kissed my forehead. 

As I was rubbing the feeling back to into my wrists, he stood from the bed and picked up his white shirt and dressing gown to put them on. Without looking at me, he opened the bedroom door and walked out. 

I didn't know what to think. I guess that was it. We were done. I was looking for my underwear when I began to hear violin music again. Pulling on my nightshirt, I told myself that it was for the best that Sherlock Holmes and I didn't have intercourse. In fact, he did me a solid. I didn't have to do anything in return. 

But I wanted to. I wanted to please him like he pleased me. I wanted to love him with my hands, my mouth, my cunt, or any way I could get at him. God, he didn't even kiss me. 

I plucked my housecoat from the hook behind the door and slipped it on, suddenly feeling cold to my very bones. I exited Sherlock's bedroom, having decided that I was going to walk through his living room and out the door without talking to him. 

Knowing what I know of him, he would never want to talk about this. It would be like it never happened. We could start fresh in the morning. 

"Kayako," he said before I could reach his front door. The violin stopped abruptly. He wasn't looking at me, but out the window. "That was... very enjoyable for me. I hope you found it pleasurable as well." 

I froze where I was standing for a moment, unable to think of how to respond. Well, there went that whole not-talking-about-it thing. "I did, Sherlock. Thank you. Good night." 

I hurried out the door and down the stairs as though I were being chased. Maybe I was. By my conscience or something. I was a bad mother. I abandoned my children in the middle of the night, just so I could hook up with the guy with the flat upstairs.

I let myself into back into our home and closed the door, engaging all the locks. My day was finally catching up with me and I was so tired. I wanted to just collapse on the couch and sleep for days, but I needed to check on the children first. 

I trudged down the hallway to Lena's room and carefully opened the door. I heard her little snore and smiled to myself. My little girl was a deep sleeper. I checked on Timmy next and found him asleep, too, hugging his plush Beymax doll to his chest. Even in the sliver of light, I could tell he was completely zonked out.

I returned to the living room and sat on the couch where I had fallen asleep earlier in the evening. I couldn't go back to my room. I didn't want to, especially if there were cameras in there. Sherlock Holmes had already seen way too much of me for the day. 

I woke up hours later with a little boy sitting on my back and prying open one of my eyes. "I told you, Lennie, she's just sleeping. She's not dead. We're not orphans." 

That chased away all traces of sleep from my brain. I immediately sat up, making my son yelp. I caught him before he toppled to the floor and secured him on my lap. "Wait, wait. Why do you two want to be orphans?" 

My kids were wishing me dead. 

Lena, sitting on the coffee table, was looking down at her hands and pointedly avoiding me. Her skinny shoulders were slumped, so she was embarrassed to have been caught at this devious plot, but there was a stubborn tilt to her chin, too. It reminded me of Jim. 

"Lena, you know for the two of you to become orphans, I would have to be dead," I said as gently as I could. "Why would you want mummy dead? Aren't I a good mummy?" 

My daughter shrugged. "I guess."

Kids knew the best way to really mess with your head. I decided to press on, even though I was starting to feel a little hollow inside. "So why would you want to be orphans?" 

Lena had her hands in her lap, twisting up her nightgown and her little feet were kicking the couch I was on. "So that Mr. and Mrs. Watson could adopt us and we'd have a real family." 

For a moment, I was rendered speechless. My poor children, trading in their former Yakuza contract-killing mother for another contract-killer because she had a husband and a baby and appeared "normal." I clutched Timmy to my chest and reached out to touch Helena's hair. "Hey, Lennie, we're not doing too badly, are we? I know things look really dark right now, but the police are working hard to put away the bad guys who want to hurt us, so we can live our lives freely. Maybe after all this is settled, we can visit America and go to Disneyland. Would you like that?"

My little girl looked up, her big eyes suddenly lit up with joy. "Oh, boy, Disneyland? Do you mean it, mummy? Can we bring Mrs. Hudson, too?" 

I sighed. What was I going to do about this Mrs. Hudson thing when this was all over? "Sure, if she wants to come along."

As soon as I said that, lively knocks soon came to our front door and we heard Mrs. Hudson's owl-like call "Hoo-hoo!" 

The children immediately sprang up to run toward the door, but I caught the backs of their shirts to stop them. "Hey, what did I say about never ever opening the door for anyone? Not for Mrs. Hudson, not for Mr. Holmes, and not even for me. Stay here."

My children glared at me, but stayed put on the couch where I made them both sit. Grabbing my mobile phone, I accessed the app that would allow me to see from the camera above the door. Sure enough, there was Mrs. Hudson... and Sherlock Holmes. 

I wasn't quite ready to see him, but if he could be nonchalant about this, so could I. It was no big deal. We were two consenting adults acting on our attraction to each other. 

I opened the door and the lovely Mrs. Hudson breezed in with the smell of freshly baked muffins. Banana cashew, she said, and some blueberries, which were Timmy's favorites. 

Sherlock followed her inside and I couldn't bear to look at him. His Byronic handsomeness was just a little too much to take this morning. He was wearing an ash-gray button down, a black suit-jacket with black trousers, a navy blue scarf hanging undone around his neck, and his signature Belstaff Millford coat. He was, as always, impeccably dressed. 

Meanwhile, I was still in the same nightshirt he saw me in last night and hadn't brushed my teeth. 

"What's up, Sherlock?" I asked warily. 

Mrs. Hudson had already taken the children to the kitchen to give them their breakfast. 

"Go on and get dressed, Mrs. Carter," he said with fire burning in his cobalt eyes. "The game, madam, it is afoot!"


	8. The Enforcer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kayako and Sherlock venture out in search of a lead. Sherlock discovers some of Kayako's hidden talents.
> 
> Content warning: mentions of sexual assault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is narrated from the first person POV of an original female character.

Sherlock said a rat called Noodle brought him a lead early this morning. It seemed there was a new party drug going around that rendered a person completely susceptible to another person's wishes or suggestions for a limited amount of time, then the person who took the drug would have no recollection of what took place while under the influence of the substance. The drug, which they were calling Master, was also supposed to put the user in a state of complete ecstasy and lack of inhibitions.

Well, great. Someone invented a date rape drug for the new millennium. Not only could you be violated beyond your imagination, but you would have a blast and yet not recall a second of it. Perfect. Imagine a rapist being so considerate of their victims.

Noodle said we might be able to squeeze out more info from some dosshead and rentboy named Munky who usually hung out in the grotty alley behind Pepita's, a shitty pub in King's Cross that claimed to have been open since 1805 and really should have been condemned for health code violations decades ago.

Alleys never smelled like roses, but this one was particularly rank. It reeked of human misery and desperation: piss, shit, and vomit. Oh, and hot, hot garbage.

"Honey, you bring me to the best places," I muttered to the man next to me. "A dosshead for me to beat up first thing in the morning? You shouldn't have."

"It was this or a big, cheesy bouquet of flowers," he murmured wryly. "And I haven't been able to deduce which kind you like."

I gave him a sidelong glance, unable to decide whether or not he was joking. I shoved the question out of my mind and followed his tall, lean figure toward the back alley.

I readied myself. I had a telescoping riot baton hidden up each of my sleeves and my butterfly knives strapped to my back pockets. I wasn't planning on beating the shit out of anyone, but this was a back alley in King's Cross, not a bloody, sunny lane in Bath.

On the back stoop of a Chinese restaurant next to Pepita's sat a group of youths indistinguishable by gender or age. They were all skinny and pouty in that heroin-chic style that Calvin Klein made super hot in the nineties, only severely downgraded because a couple of them looked like they hadn't showered in a while and had junky teeth and skin courtesy of that lovely thing called meth.

They were all smoking and passing around a paperbag that had a bottle in it. I couldn't pick out which was the rentboy because they all had shortish hair and were all elfish and androgynous. They looked like some fucked up groupies of Tinkerbell.

"Hey, saila, you seekin' a good time?" one of them says with a thick Geordie accent, while the others burst into laughter like hyenas.

"He's quite canny, him-like," said one of the others, inclining her head toward Sherlock. "Ain't it a little early for you toffs to be seekin' some kink? You wanting to get in some naughty time before you head out to Surrey for a country afternoon with mam and dad?"

"Quite canny, indeed," her friend agreed, leering at us with an expression that was much too old for such a young face. "His old lady is propa nice, too. I'd do you both for free, luvvies."

Next to me, Sherlock was standing in a deceptively casual pose, but I could sense the tension within him. He reminded me of a cat, lazily watching its prey, its tail wagging back and forth, just waiting for the best moment to strike. I deferred to him for cues. In these situations, I was never the interrogator, just the scare tactic.

"All right," he said in his low, quiet voice. "We are searching for a specific somebody. Whomever I point to is not the person we're looking for and should immediately leave the area. Is that understood?"

A blonde youth wearing an electric blue leather newsboy cap to complete an ensemble of ratty black jeans, at least four layers of tank tops, a red ski jacket with a faux fur-lined hood, and red combat boots, flashed my companion two fingers within fingerless gloves. "Fuck off, you twatters."

Sherlock glanced at me quickly and lifted one eyebrow ever so slightly. I hooked my ankle around blondie's leg and yanked her forward, grasping a fistful of her shirt to pull her to her feet. I already had my knife in my palm. It was easy enough to wrestle her around and get her in a headlock since she was slender and weak. Within seconds, I had my knifepoint on her jugular.

"This girl is not someone we're looking for," said Sherlock. "But someone must be because she's obviously a runaway. She's fresh-faced and cared for. Her skin is free of spots and substance abuse damage and her nails, almost bitten to the quick, are clean. Worst of all, she hasn't learned the number one rule in the streets, which is you don't mouth off to just anyone, because they could very well kick your arse."

Her friends laughed nastily. I gave the girl a shove toward the opening of the alley. "Go home, Susan. Study for your A-levels and stay out of trouble."

The others began to look at us with a mix of fascination and anxiety. Sherlock plucked two more out of the group and they skittered away on their own volition. I didn't even have to threaten them. The remaining two stared at us, wide-eyed with fear.

"One of you is Munky," said Sherlock, putting his black leather gloved-hand on the shoulder of a skinny ginger boy whose ear was covered in piercings and had tattoos that spanned from his wrist and all the way up to the side of his neck.

The Asian kid sitting next to him looked relieved. He was a very pretty boy. Japanese and white, I think, just like my children. He had bleached blond hair, green eyes, and a big, pouty, pornstar mouth. He was the cleanest-looking one of the crew and reminded me of those pretty boy hosts at some of my father's nightclubs.

I grabbed the collar of the other kid's shirt and hoisted him up to his feet. I might be petite, but I was pretty strong and these punks weighed no more than matchsticks. "Get out of here, Carrot Top," I told the kid and didn't have to tell him twice.

Munky looked at me, then Sherlock, then back at me again. "Holy shit, are you two cops or something?"

"Or something," Sherlock replied. "Dear Munky, I heard you could lead us to something called The Master."

The kid was already vehemently shaking his head before Sherlock could finish his line of inquiry. A bad start, this. He didn't even know yet what we were after him for.

He didn't look too bad for a dosshead. He was probably about twenty-two or twenty-three. He had nice teeth and his fingernails were clean. He was wearing a red button-down shirt with the top four ones undone and a fringed black scarf around his neck. His black jacket was that puffer type that kids who go skiing wear. His black jeans were skinny cut and there was a hole on the knee, but he seemed to be wearing purple leggings underneath. He hadn't been on the streets for long. I wondered what his circumstances were and what led him to where he was.

"If you two are into some kinky BDSM shit, I can refer you to some badass Masters," Munky said with a shrug, suddenly filled with bluster and fake arrogance.

"Munky," I said gently, putting my hand on his arm. I was also wearing black leather gloves. "You know how these things go. I've sure you've seen Guy Ritchie films, right?"

The kid swallowed visibly. Sherlock and I had to be quite a sight: him, so tall and lean in his black ulster coat and me, a psychotic, knife-wielding Japanese lady in black leather. Both of us were wearing gloves, so we wouldn't leave fingerprints.

But for Sherlock, the gloves served a triple purpose: to avoid contamination of the scene, prophylactic for his hands because he was averse to touching anything, and lastly, because they looked pretty fuckin' cool. I was quite sure he didn't really care about the third part, but who the hell really knew about Sherlock Holmes.

"I don't know what you think I know." Munky was near tears, his body pressed against the railing of the stairs, as though he was trying to make himself so much smaller than he was. "But I swear, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"There's a new street drug called the Master," said Sherlock, leaning closer to the kid until the little punk started to whimper. "We were told you know all about it."

I made sure Munky was looking at me before I flicked open my knife and began to clean my fingernails. "I really don't want to get blood all over me this early in the morning, child, so start squawking."

Usually that did the trick, but either I had lost my touch or Munky was made of sterner stuff. He said nothing. I locked gazes with Sherlock and he gave me an almost imperceptible nod.

I stepped forward on the stairs and hauled Munky to his feet by grabbing his scarf. I spoke tersely to him in Japanese. I told him I was from the Yamaguchi-gumi clan and that he was a disgusting, cowardly little worm. I had suspected he was somebody's pet and most likely had someone he answered to. I demanded that person's name, on behalf of my clan.

"Oh God, please, he'll kill me," he pleaded in English. "I just sell the stuff, okay? I don't even use it. That shit is dangerous as fuck."

"The name, worm," I growled in Japanese, wrapping more of his scarf around my fists to shorten the slack so he'd choke. "I know you have a boss. Give me his name and I'll leave your pretty face unscarred."

"I don't care," he yelled into my face, spraying me with dosshead spittle. "He'll do much worse to me."

Sherlock grinned wolfishly at me and leaned over to the kid to whisper something in his ear. I watched in fascination as all the blood drained out of Munky's face and he looked at me like I was the devil himself. I lifted my eyebrow at Sherlock, but he just gave me the subtlest of smiles.

I raised my entire leg in a high kick, hitting Munky in the throat. When he doubled over to cough, I dropped my leg on his back, making him fall to the ground.

I had no mercy for assholes who sold date rape drugs.

"Okay, okay," said Munky, raising his head from the dirty asphalt. "I'm not telling you nothing about my boss, but I'll tell you about the shit I've heard around here."

There was a new player in town, he said, that people were just calling the Alchemist and no one was willing to talk about the bloke. I scoffed at this. What a lameass name, I said loudly.

Sherlock looked at me curiously for a second before proclaiming the name ludicrous as well. "How bloody original. Was Sorcerer taken?"

I laughed. "Does he think he's bloody Voldemort?"

Sherlock frowned in confusion and I realized he didn't understand the reference. Watson said he wasn't up to date on pop culture, but Harry Potter?! _Come on_. I sighed and shook my head.

"What else do you know?" I demanded, prodding Munky with the tip of my boot. "Come on, you piece of shit. Tell me or you're fish food in the Thames."

It was alarmingly easy to slip back into the role of Tokugawa Kayako, Yakuza thug and contract killer. There were aspects of that life that I truly enjoyed. What scared me and caused me to run away was how much I was loving the work I was doing. The bloodlust and satisfaction of completing a particularly challenging job were like a drug to me. That was back when I listened to DMX and NWA a lot.

By seventeen, I had six confirmed kills. What initially horrified me was how little the work bothered me. My father had killed without regret or compunction. I didn't want to be a monster like him. I had to stop myself.

And yet here I was, terrorizing a poor, pathetic dosshead and taking to it like a duck took to water. My father always said I was a natural-born killer. He would say it proudly as though it was equivalent to me being a prodigy in maths. I believed that my mother, who tried her best to nurture me when she was alive, had feared me at times, especially during the first two weeks after I returned from spending my annual summer vacations with my father. She had probably worried about what kind of monster she would be welcoming back into her house in the fall.

"I think he's being housed by the Irish." Munky spat out blood and glared up at me. "Ricky's brother hangs out with the L.O.K. He's always talking about this precious cargo that they have to move every couple of days. And Pike's been flush with cash ever since this bloke popped up."

It was right around then that my spider senses started tingling. Without looking, I could tell at least four people had come to join our little alley party. My one bright warning was the sudden spark of challenge in Munky's eyes.

I slowly extended the riot batons down my sleeve. Before I lashed out, I told myself they would have guns. I dropped to my haunches and struck out, targeting the kneecaps of the man immediately behind me. I quickly followed up with a foot sweep and a groin punch to take him down.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was engaged with another thug who was getting some pretty square shots to the face and kidneys. His tactics were meant to quickly disable his opponents. He was a pugilist through and through, but he was very fast. The thug threw a punch that might have knocked down Sherlock because he was big and looked pretty strong, but the detective easily dodged it, grabbing the man's arm to tug him down and thrusting his knee toward the man's midsection.

After I took down the first guy, another punk came at me with a knife, but I avoided him in time and struck him hard in the armpit. Using his bent leg for leverage, I hopped onto his shoulders and squeezed his neck with my thighs while slamming my hands flat against his ears. As he went down, I grabbed his knife and flung it at the man raising his arm to point a gun at Sherlock and nailed him right on the inside of his wrist. The blade went through to the other side.

He collapsed to the ground, clutching his arm to his stomach. That was when when I kicked the side of his head like it was a football to render him unconscious. I set about doing the same thing to the other two men I had already taken down.

I'd like to say that I did all this without a sweat, but by the time I was knocking out the last guy, I was already getting winded. After they were all down, I panted and dropped my hands to my knees in an effort to catch my breath.

"All right?" Sherlock asked, putting a hand on my back.

"Yeah, I'm good." I gulped some cold air in, wiping my forehead with the sleeve of my black leather jacket. "It's just... been a while."

"I can imagine," he said dryly.

I straightened up and surveyed the carnage before us. In the melee, I had expected Munky to run away, but it seemed Sherlock had tied him up to the staircase railing.

I laughed at this. "Good lookin' out, mate." I indicated the unconscious thugs spread out before us. "What do we do with these assholes?"

Sherlock looked at the dumpster, then back at me, and smiled.

***

We collected their wallets and mobiles before we deposited them in the dumpster. Sherlock slammed the heavy metal lid shut and secured it with a piece of twine. I held out my fist to him and he bumped it with his.

When he got a call from Lestrade, we returned for a moment to Baker Street so I could check on my children. I found them in the living room, each child on her respective side of the coffee table, working on what looked like math problems on pre-prepared exercise sheets. They looked thoroughly absorbed with what they were doing.

What set off my alarms were the Asian woman and black man I had never seen before sitting behind each of my babies in armchairs. Slowly, I crossed my arms over my stomach, resting my hands lightly on the tops of my blades. I prayed I could take them out before they could hurt my children. Where the hell was Mrs. Hudson?

The woman was reading an American paperback novel and the man had a magazine. They both looked up at me and Sherlock and carefully set down their reading material.

"Hi, Mummy!" Timmy dashed over to my side and wrapped his skinny arms around my waist. "Lily is making me do sums. She says I have to finish both sides of the sheets before I am allowed to play games."

"Sounds like Lily has her priorities straight," I murmured, casually pushing my son behind me. I eyed Lena, but she only made a funny face at me and went back to her worksheet.

"Mrs. Carter, these are Constables Lily Mendoza and Charles Bryant of the Scotland Yard," Sherlock told me. "You have no need to worry about them. They're perfectly competent police officers, if a bit over-eager. Lily Mendoza was at the top of her class at the academy. Having been raised in a strict Catholic Filipino family with only brothers, she has a need to prove herself and her arrogance may lead to her downfall, but she is loyal to the force and genuinely wants to serve."

Lily looked at Sherlock as though he had just stripped her naked in front of everyone and for a moment, I thought she was going to cry, but she just inclined her chin resolutely and bit her lip.

"Charles Bryant is the more interesting of the two. He comes from money and attended fancy, exclusive public schools, and has a Master's in Psychology from the University of Manchester. His parents were dismayed that he went into law enforcement when the men in his family have traditionally been bankers. They were also all white males. Bryant is a tactician and a planner. He will advance quickly in the Scotland Yard, if his parents don't get involved. Though he is twenty-six years old, his mother hasn't quite severed the umbilical cord and is a little bit of a meddler. At work, his peers resent him because he's smarter, faster, and more athletic than they are. They also hate that the higher-ups in the Yard seem to dote on him and believe he is only doing well because of his family name and connections. Or because he's a black male and the Scotland Yard wants to present itself as a progressive, equal-opportunity establishment. Either way, he's a good sort and would probably sacrifice his life for your children."

The handsome constable didn't say anything in response to Sherlock's assessment of him, but merely nodded at me. Dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, he looked more like a grad student than police. His dark-brown curls were cropped extremely close to his scalp and his skin was the color of mocha. He really was very good-looking and with the way Mendoza kept checking him out, it was obvious she thought so, too.

"What happened to Detective Inspector Dimmock?" I demanded, facing Sherlock. "Why are we getting two more people involved? I thought the Scotland Yard was going to try and keep this as quiet and low-key as possible. Does everyone in the precinct know where we are?"

"No, Mrs. Carter," said Constable Mendoza. "This is considered a top priority Eyes Only mission. Only the two lead detectives, Sergeant Donovan, the superintendent, Bryant, and I know where you're truly hidden. The department has been very careful at keeping everything tightly under wraps."

"Lestrade called to tell me that Dimmock was pulled off the case and reassigned. Apparently, the chief superintendent didn't see the need for the case to have two of their finest detectives," Sherlock said with a trace of irony in his voice. "But hey, good news, we get to have Donovan once she's back on active duty."

I nodded at the constables and told Timmy to return his math exercises, bending low to kiss the top of his head. I pulled Sherlock aside, closer to the door so the constables wouldn't hear us talking. I couldn't shake off this vague sense of this discomfort that something wasn't right.

"I don't understand why the police would want to pull in two more constables for this assignment. Too many people already know about us," I said, running a hand through my hair. "Oh and it just so happened that this morning, we waged war on the Irish Brotherhood."

Sherlock shook his head. "Oh, right, like three large meatheads would admit to getting taken out by one little Asian woman. They'll probably make up some story about some Asian gang ambushing them or something."

"Well, how about you, Sherlock Holmes?" I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him. "What will the Irish mob make of a tall detective in a long, black coat nosing around their business? You're not exactly unknown around London."

He scoffed. "They would just assume I'm working with the Scotland Yard investigating this new drug, completely unrelated to your case. You're overestimating the ability of the average human mind to put two and two together."

But I still couldn't shake this feeling of uneasiness. Why would Dimmock be suddenly pulled off the case? I thought this was a pretty goddamn high-profile case seeing as my husband ended up slaughtered and there had been two attempts to gun me and my children down. Didn't that merit some attention? But, as Sherlock reasoned, there were a lot of details that weren't released to the press and the public, so it wouldn't be very easy to put things together.

More than anything, I was also bothered by this new drug called the Master. I didn't know if I were just experiencing dejavu, but there were details about this particular drug that tickled my mind like a memory. Had I encountered something like it before? Maybe there was a variation of it going around Japan while I was still active in the Yakuza. There was something about it that felt familiar.

The spot under my eye where I caught an elbow was starting to throb. I'd probably have one hell of a shiner by tomorrow morning. Sherlock caught my chin in his hand and lifted my head, so he could inspect the already swelling flesh.

"Maybe I shouldn't introduce you as my girlfriend anymore when we're out and about," he said with a small smile. "People might get the wrong idea about me when they see that black eye."

I chuckled and gave him a push, just so I could get away from him. I couldn't stand it whenever Sherlock looked at me in that flirty way. It was way too much. It made us seem like a normal couple who could do naughty things with each other once the children were in bed and made me want things I could or would never have with Sherlock Holmes.

"Let's get going," he said. "Lestrade thinks he might have a lead regarding 14K."

I nodded and forced myself to smile. Walking over to my children, I held them tightly and kissed their foreheads and breathed in their sweet baby smells. I told them how much I loved them and that I was working hard to make everything okay again. Helena hugged my neck and said she loved me.

With tears pricking my eyes, I stood and asked the two constables if I could speak to them for a moment. As I drew them away from the children, Sherlock walked over to my kids and said hello. In not too long, they were climbing all over him and fighting for his attention.

I stared at the two constables square in the eyes. "I'm not going to mince words here. I don't know if you two know about my past, but if any harm at all come to my children, I would be forced to give you both a history lesson. I am not threatening you. I am merely stating a fact."

Lily Mendoza looked outrage and opened her mouth to say something, but I put up my hand to stop her. "If either you even think of betraying me and my children, I would know about it and immediately kill you. You will honor your positions and protect my children with your lives, if you must."

The two constables appeared nervous. They should be. I had nothing left in the world but my children and would burn the world to the ground if harm or death came to claim either of them.

Both looking so solemn, they nodded and swore they would do anything to keep my kids safe.

"You protect mine," I said, touching both of their arms. "And I will protect both you and yours."

They squeezed my arms back and gave me solid vows.


	9. No One was Kung-Fu Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade confronts Sherlock and Kayako about the incident in the alley of King's Cross. Sherlock gets word that big shipment of drugs and firearms are coming in from a Southeast Asian country and the deal was most likely set up by the new big fish, Lee Chung-Shing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is narrated from the first person POV of an original female character.

Greg Lestrade looked like he hadn't slept in days. He had a couple of days of beard growth and his eyes were red-rimmed and heavy-lidded. His button-down shirt was wrinkled like he'd picked up whatever was on the floor of his bedroom to put on and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. There was a small stain near the front breast pocket that looked like a coffee stain and he had a distinct expression of "don't fuck with me, I've just about had it" on his handsome face. His hair appeared a little grayer than when I last saw him, too.

We went into his small, cramped office and Sherlock automatically closed the door behind him.

Lestrade peered wearily at both of us through the fingers of the hand supporting the side of his head. "Oi, what's that on your face then, Mrs. Carter? Getting into fights, have you?"

I sheepishly touched my bruised eye. I couldn't believe I wasn't able to dodge that jab in time. I must be getting slower in my old age. Or I was just a little rusty. Maybe after all this, I could get a part-time job as an instructor at a dojo, so I would always be training.

"It's not very smart, is it, Sherlock, to be parading her on the streets of London when she's supposed to be in hiding?" The Detective Inspector's tone was admonishing and sarcastic as his leery gaze volleyed between me and Sherlock. "Apparently, your new sidekick is also some kind of kung fu warrior."

"She's being hidden in plain sight, Lestrade," said Sherlock, sounding a little vexed. His black leather gloved-hands gripped the armrests of the chair he was sitting in. "And kung fu is Chinese. She's Japanese. Her fighting style is a combination of judo, aikido, and kempo. I might have seen some Krav Maga, too."

The detective inspector shifted his attention to me and I shrugged. I was taught to quickly and efficiently disable my opponents; permanently, if needed. The Krav Maga, I learned from an Israeli studio here in London. The non-Zen, no-bullshit approach of it just really appealed to me. Take the motherfucker out before he takes you out. "I might have taken a couple of self-defense classes here and there in the past."

Sherlock gave me an old-fashioned look and raised one eyebrow. "She's a competent fighter," he told Lestrade. "She can take care of herself, if that's what you're asking."

Lestrade sighed heavily and raked a hand through his hair. "This incident in Kings Cross was really your doing? You two left five men severely concussed and one of them bleeding out, one in a coma. You could have killed them." He slammed his open palm on the surface of his desk, daring us to challenge him. "You two aren't Batman and Robin. If any of these men die, you will be up for murder charges."

"Self-defense," Sherlock said, completely unaffected by Lestrade's warning. "They attacked us first. And they had knives. We feared for our lives." He added the last part with no intonation whatsoever.

"That's bullshit, Holmes," Lestrade yelled, shooting up to stand, probably so he could loom over us. "Before the little rent-boy collapsed, he told us you two managed to put away four of those arseholes in under two minutes."

"Oh, like it was hard?" I scoffed, earning another raised eyebrow from the consulting detective. Oh, right, we were trying to downplay the whole super ninja thing. "Wait, you said five earlier. Are you counting Munky? We did nothing to him except tie him up. He didn't even get slapped or anything." All right, so I beat him up a little bit. But I left him alive.

Lestrade didn't say anything. He just opened his desk drawer and pulled out a file folder, which he tossed on the desk.

Sherlock picked it up and opened it. The folder seemed to be filled with glossy photos. He flipped through it as though it were a picture book and made a low whistling sound. "Blimey, no amount of surgery can make that face pretty again," he said, shaking his head. "Mrs. Carter and I are not responsible for this. Most especially not Mrs. Carter. Her feet aren't big enough to make the boot marks on this boy's face."

I grabbed the folder out of Sherlock's hands, so I could inspect the images myself. Munky, whose real name was Phillip Martin Sato, was no longer recognizable. His face was not much more than pounded meat. Someone had kicked him in the jaw with enough force to dislocate it. He didn't look alive.

I closed the folder and tossed it back onto Lestrade's desk. "I take it he's the one in the coma?" At the detective inspector's confirmation, my stomach clenched tightly. "No. When we left Munky, he was unharmed... mostly. He might have pissed his pants in fear, but he was otherwise fine."

Sherlock and I looked at each other. We had left Munky there to be slaughtered. The Irish would have thought he had something to do with their brethren being beaten and imprisoned in a metal dumpster and taken out their anger out on him. If the police hadn't arrived when they did, Munky would be dead. Hell, he could very well die, anyway.

This didn't sit very well with me. It was one thing if I had killed Munky myself, but to leave him to be killed by others seemed... dishonorable, somehow. My father had always told me to make sure that every kill was a clean kill. He didn't believe in leaving anyone for dead. My father had no patience for needless torture. He was a "Bang-bang-bang. Three in the head, you know they're dead" kind of guy.

"Where is he?" demanded Sherlock.

"Heavily guarded round the clock at St. Bart's." Lestrade sighed and for a moment, looked older than his years. "This is the kind of trouble I was trying to avoid, Sherlock. I don't want word about gang activity heating up again. You know what happened last time."

The consulting detective shook his head. "Apples and oranges, Graham. That mess with London's Own is practically a cakewalk compared to this."

Lestrade looked at him in disbelief. "Is that supposed to make me feel better? I've half a mind to contact Mycroft myself and get him to handle this. I'm sure he'll be very interested once he learns how personally invested little brother is on this case." He stared pointedly at me.

"Are you trying to imply something, Mr. Lestrade?" I asked flatly. I plucked a letter opener from a mug of pens that said World's Best Daddy and used the pointy end to start picking underneath my nails.

Lestrade glanced at the letter opener, then glared at me. "I just don't like these reports I'm getting about the two of you getting cozy." His eyes flashed ire at Sherlock. "And frankly, I'm surprised at you. I didn't think you even liked--" He stopped and cleared his throat.

The consulting detective shifted his long body in his seat languidly like a big cat stretching, but his face remained expressionless. "She is currently serving as my assistant and nearly as capable as Mary Watson. She is a vital asset to this case. "

Whoa, two things to unpack here. One, _serving?_ Really? Two, did he really just compare me to a former assassin and thinks that's a compliment? I turned in my seat to castigate him, but his attention is still on Lestrade. I sighed and shook my head. The guy could be such an asshole.

Lestrade broke off from the staring contest and raked a hand through his hair. "All right, Sherlock, give me something to work with. What have you got?"

Sherlock stood, a large, graceful crow in his long, black coat, and placed his folded hands on the small of his back. "The Irish are shuttling around a figure called the Alchemist. He apparently created a roofie for the new millennium called the Master, but it's also a party drug like MDMA, so it would appeal to nightclub goers. Shuts down inhibitions, makes one susceptible to external influence, and gives one memory loss. Perfect date rape drug."

Lestrade looked skeptical. "The Master, the Alchemist. What the hell is this, bloody Harry Potter?"

I tossed up my hands in agreement. "That's what I said."

Sherlock, whose long fingers danced on the screen of his smart phone as he texted someone-- his preferred method of communication-- frowned at me, then asked Lestrade, "What do you have on 14K?"

"According to Vice, there's a big heroin shipment coming in from Myanmar in the next couple of days," he said resignedly. "And some weapons, too, I imagine."

"Coinciding with Lee Chung-Sheng's visit from the United States," Sherlock said. "He's a big patron of the arts. The Royal Museum of London is holding a gala in two days to celebrate the opening of the new Genghis Khan exhibit. He'll be sure to attend."

Lestrade scowled at him. "You're supposed to stay far, far away from him, Holmes. You are not allowed to engage Lee Chung-Sheng."

"I'm not going anywhere near him," he confirmed with a wry smile and jerked a thumb in my direction. "But she is. Mycroft just got me an invitation to the gala. She'll be my date."

I took a deep breath in an effort to play it cool, slowly exhaling as I looked at the consulting detective who seemed to be studying me as though he were waiting for my reaction. I lifted one eyebrow ever so slightly. "I have nothing to wear."

Sherlock grinned. "I'll take care of it."

I couldn't figure the man out. But that didn't matter, did it? I couldn't afford the distraction. "You're a very strange man."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."

~°~

My children were insisting on going outside. I couldn't blame them. It had been nearly a month since they had left the flat and actually gotten some fresh air.

But they were the only thing in the world that I would never risk. If I had to jail them in a cellar of some off-the-beaten path house in the wilds of Yorkshire, I would do it. Had I been given the choice of locking them up in some MI-6 vault until it was safe, I would have gone for it. They were the two remaining beings that I would die to protect.

And yet sometimes they both test my patience to the limit until I'm tempted to chuck them both out of the window. This morning was one of those times.

"It's not fair!" cried my daughter, her eyes blazing. "You get to go out with Mr. Holmes and leave us all the time."

"Is he your boyfriend?" Timmy demanded.

I rubbed my face with my palm as I breathed in and out deeply a few times to settle my nerves. "No, he is not my boyfriend. Where did you get that ridiculous idea? And we don't go out to have fun, Helena. Every day, we are out there, searching for the people who killed your father and also want to hurt us."

Upon hearing this, my son threw himself in my arms and buried his face in my stomach. "Why do you have to do the looking? I thought we're supposed to be hiding from the bad guys."

I was glad that my children knew the gravity of the situation and why we had to remain out of sight, but at the same time, I was heartbroken that they were exposed to such ugliness at a young age. Suddenly, I was very grateful to the two constables who watched them every day and to Mrs. Hudson, too, who had adopted them as her grandchildren. My babies, more than anything, needed family.

I stroked my son's hair as his skinny arms tightened around my middle and he started to cry. "Darlings, I know you didn't know this, but I'm a pretty good detective, too. I'm good at things that Mr. Holmes isn't as good at, so he needs my help. I promise you, we can find the bad guys more quickly working together."

"That's what Mr. Watson said," grumbled my daughter. "Mr. Holmes can't work without a partner."

I pushed Helena's hair out of her eyes and bent down to kiss the top of her head. "Do you not see how sad that is, little girl? This man cannot function on his own. He needs our help."

"Well, will you sit down and watch a video with us, then?" my daughter asks, tugging on my hand. "It's _Moana_. Auntie Mary got it for us."

Timmy had already apprised me of the plot and I approve of the premise. A young girl braves the sea and monsters and arrogant demi-gods in order to save her island and find a new way for her people to thrive.

I allowed my children to lead me to the sofa and they both immediately curled into my side like puppies seeking warmth. I pulled a plush blanket over us and started the video. As the Disney logo came up on the screen, I got a little choked up and tightened my hold on the kids for a moment till they both squeaked.

"Mummy!" cried Timmy. "You're hugging me too hard."

I released them both, but they continued to cuddle up against me. I was worrying about what I was going to wear to the gala where I'm supposed to spy on Lee Chung-Shing, but the consulting detective had told me to relax and leave everything to him. I didn't know exactly what he means to do, but if it allowed me to spend more time on my children, then more power to him.

Our heroine had just come across the demi-god, Maui, a hulk of a guy inked all over with tribal tattoos, and was proclaiming herself as "Moana of Motunui. You will board my boat and restore the heart to Te Fiti."

Meanwhile, I heard some movement in the hallway that led to the receiving area and froze. When the tall, dark, familiar figure of a man crossed the foyer and his shadow casted itself on the wall, I sighed in relief. Annoyance soon followed because I was spending quality time with my children and his appearance in my home meant the fun and games would have to stop for now.

He was dressed in a black suit with black trousers and the button-down shirt he wore underneath was royal blue. His ever present scarf hung loosely around his neck and and he had his long, black coat folded over his arm.

"Mrs. Carter," he said cordially. "Children."

"Mum, did you not lock the door like you were supposed to?" Helena demanded accusingly, pointedly ignoring our guest. "Mr. Holmes couldn't have gotten in had the locks been engaged."

I looked at Sherlock and narrowed my gaze at him. "Why didn't you knock, Mr. Holmes? It very rude of you to come in without permission."

"I was checking the security of your door," he said with obvious discomfort. Still, he stood tall and kept his chin up. "It was rather too easy. I'd have to come up with another way to secure it and fast."

"Would the Scotland Yard pay for the installation of a state-of-the-art, maximum-security door?"

The detective scoffed. "Of course not. The Scotland Yard barely has shillings to rub together these days."

Just as I suspected: he was funding this whole thing. He was doing it for me and my children. If I were to sum up the total amount of money that this man had already spent on us, I imagined it was already in the excess of hundreds of thousands of pounds. Was he very rich? Did he have the financial backing of the British government? After all, he did say that his brother Mycroft worked for the government.

"Have a seat, Mr. Holmes," I said, indicating the reclining armchair behind him. "We're watching an animated feature film. Would you like to join us?"

"It's ever so funny and good," said Timmy. "Maui can turn into any animal he wants with the help of his giant fish hook."

"Polynesian folktales? Always a rollicking time." He set down his folded coat on the coffee table and sat on the armchair. "Have I missed much?"

Helena frowned. She wasn't happy with this new inclusion, but if it meant I would get to stay with them a little longer, she would deal with it. My little girl had always been pragmatic that way. "You missed a bunch. We saw Moana's island and Moana as a baby. We also met her parents and pig. We can just re-watch it right after, so you can catch up."

Sherlock looked up at me and our eyes met and held. Stifling a smile, he shifted his attention to my daughter. "That would be agreeable."

His posture, of course, was perfect. The small of his back touched the base of the armchair as he reclined. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, as if savoring these moments of peace, and when he opened them again, caught me staring at him, so I quickly switched my attention to the movie.

Moana and Maui are deep underwater now and trapped by a giant crab obsessed with shiny things. He was singing a song called "Shiny," which my kids already knew the words to.

How many times had they seen this movie? At least six, Mrs. Hudson would later tell me. They watched the video at least twice a day after I leave with Sherlock in the morning.

Suddenly, I had the feeling that Sherlock was staring at me. His gaze felt like a warm velvet stroke on my bare skin. My toes curled inwardly and I became a little breathless. I switched my attention from the movie to the throw pillow on my lap. This way, I could check him out from beneath my eyelashes. I soon had proof for my suspicions. He was indeed eyeballing me.

My mind hearkened back to the night he assaulted my willing and hungry body with his hot, sipping kisses. The gentle, but determined way he sucked at my skin as though he were trying find out if I tasted the same all over my body was divine. When he dove between my legs and kissed me where I needed him most, I was sent flying like a delicate teacup thrown in the air, only to shatter into a dozen pieces moments later. He destroyed me that night. My face burned crimson at the memory of it.

It was a mistake and shouldn't have happened. Shame came over me and made it a little hard to breathe. I was a newly widowed woman with two small children to raise. I couldn't add a developing romance with a neuroatypical man on top of that. I'd bet my left foot he'd be impossible to deal with even if I were a young, carefree Londonite who didn't have to answer to anyone.

And what did Sherlock Holmes feel about me, anyway? John Watson said he got bored very quickly and was perpetually looking for ways to challenge his massive intellect. I was probably just a curiosity to him, something like a bug in a jar. Mrs. Hudson said he had never had a girlfriend that she knew of. Not a boyfriend, either. Maybe he read something in a human sexuality book and decided it was time to try it out on a real live girl.

"Oh no, I hate this part!" cried my son, who had burrowed himself into my side. "I don't like when Moana and Maui fight, Mummy."

I must have had drifted off longer than I thought because when I returned my attention to the screen, Maui was very upset and holding up a singed, chipped fishhook that wouldn't survive another blow. Moana herself was very angry, because she believed it was Maui's destiny to complete this mission and they had already risked their lives, traversing a vast distance, only for him to chicken out. Moana had pinned all her hopes on him. He was the hero. He was supposed to save everyone. She couldn't go back to her island, empty-handed and defeated.

It was a very sad moment, indeed, and even though both of my children had already probably seen it three dozen times, they were still affected by it and I was touched to see tears glistening in their eyes. I got a little choked up myself.

After the movie, the children asked if we could watch another. My daughter tacked on that Mr. Holmes could even stay, forgetting that she had already invited him earlier during the movie and the man had accepted. Timmy suggested that we could order takeaway and eat in front of the telly while huddled together.

My eyes burned with tears I couldn't shed because I had to say no. The picture of togetherness my children presented to me was a little too much to bear. I kissed the top of Helena and Timmy's heads before extricating myself from the tangle of blankets, arms, and limbs. I told them I needed the loo.

I could feel Sherlock's stare on my back as I walked away. Once I was in the wc, I closed the door and put the cover down on the toilet, so I could sit. Finally alone, I grabbed a towel, buried my face in it, and sobbed.

I was torn between two worlds: this warm, beautiful normalcy I had always aspired for myself and the ugly, bloody violence of my past as Tokugawa Kayako, Yakuza princess. In the last few days, I had used my body as an instrument of destruction and mayhem, and can no longer deny the joy that filled me the first time my fist hit another person's flesh in years and yielded blood. Was I a fucking psycho like my father?

After using the toilet and washing my hands, I exited the loo and found that the two constables assigned to guard my children had returned for their shift and were on the sofa talking to them. Helena had a hairbrush in her hand and was running it through Lily's long hair.

Sherlock, having already put on his long, black ulster coat, stood apart almost half a room away from them, like a raven keeping watch. Even as his long-fingered hands were fiddling with his scarf, his sharp eyes remained vigilant, never missing a thing.


	10. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade asks Sherlock to look into another case involving the death of young girls, which are being declared as suicides. Lestrade suspects they aren't. Sherlock and Kayako receive a tip about a potential lead and have to go to a nightclub to check it out. They decide to go as a couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire story is told from the first-person POV of an original female character.

I knew something else was bothering DCI Greg Lestrade when we saw him last time because he looked like he was moments away from going into the storage closet and hanging himself with his necktie. His eyes had been bleak and red-rimmed like he'd spent a bit of time crying and his shoulders bore the heaviness of a world gone to shit. After all, the man had a life outside of busting criminals and investigating homicides. Holmes told me he was on a trial separation from his wife with whom he had three children.

As it turned out, that was just one of the other big-ticket items on his mind. "Holmes," he said as soon as we walked into his office. "I realize you have a lot on your plate right now and Dimmock would blow a gasket if he knew I even talked to you about this, but we need your help on another case." He looked over Sherlock's shoulder and appeared dismayed to see that I was closely following the consulting detective."Oh, hullo, Mrs. Carter. Would you mind stepping outside for a moment so I can speak to Holmes about the matter?"

I met Sherlock's eyes and shrugged before heading for the door. Just as I was about to reach for the doorknob, I heard Holmes say, "Mrs. Carter stays. I've told you, Lestrade. She is currently my little helper. She has been invaluable to me."

I hadn't yet turned back to face him and Lestrade. The tips of my ears burned at his words. _By God,_ the man could truly be insufferable at times. _Little_ helper. I would strangle him with his own stupid scarf if he weren't instrumental to keeping the children and me safe. But just as he had promised, we had been his primary focus since the night we almost got killed at the motel. I took a deep breath and slowly released it as I pivoted to face the two men.

"Do you really think it's a good idea to involve her in other police business when she's got her own issue to worry about?" demanded Lestrade. "For God's sake, Sherlock, there are death squads actively seeking to murder this woman and her children!"

I bristled at the detective inspector's tone. " _She_ is standing right here, thank you, so she'd really appreciate it if you didn't talk about her as though she weren't." I did not look away even when he attempted to stare me down. "I understand your concerns, Detective Lestrade, and if you really don't want me involved in this case, I'll sit it out. You are correct that I have enough rubbish in my life to sort out."

Sherlock, who had stayed silent during this exchange, indicated one of the two chairs in front of Lestrade's desk."Have a seat, Mrs. Carter. You are currently under my protection. You go where I go. That way, I can always keep an eye on you."

I stayed where I was. Exhaling heavily, I propped my hands on my waist and shifted my attention to Sherlock. "I should be with my children, Mr. Holmes, when we're not working on our case. They are very young and they need me."

Even as I said this, I wondered at the truth of it. The children had many caretakers whose company they seemed to prefer over mine these days. Their new social network was keeping them distracted from the horror of their day to day lives, while giving them a sense of normalcy. With me around, they would only be reminded that we're supposed to be in hiding because there are people who are trying to kill us.

I realized also that this is a justification I've invented for myself because I didn't want to be stuck inside 221C for God knows how long, either.

"There ya go, Sherlock," Lestrade said, first staring at the man next to me before focusing on me. "It'll be safer for everyone involved if Mrs. Carter were to stay out of this one."

Sherlock dismissed all of that by slashing his hand through the air like a blade. He would tolerate no more arguments. "I need Mrs. Carter with me. She is a vital asset because she is the key witness to all of this. I value her insight as well as the situational information she can give me at specific moments."

I gaped at him for a moment and he had no problem meeting my gaze. There was no tonal shift in his cool baritone, no easily discernible emotion. I shivered, though it was a little warm in the office, and looked away from him as I gingerly sat in the chair he held out for me.

"Fine, Holmes, have it your bloody way," said Lestrade with a resigned grunt. "Like you always do. Just get the job done."

Sherlock's mouth moved to form his upside-down smile as he settled in the chair next to mine. "You've finally realized that the rash of suicides within the last few months among young women of disco-hopping age in the Upper West End... isn't just a coincidence?"

I sat up straighter and folded my hands in my lap, so that I wouldn't fidget. I have read about these suicides on the dailies and the internet. For a little while now, it seemed to be a weekly occurrence that a young party woman from a prominent London family jumped from the rooftop of a building or hanged herself in her bedroom closet. It had all of the city baffled. There was even chatter about some kind of suicide cult. So far, seven had lost their lives.

Lestrade raked a hand over his short gray hair and sighed deeply. "Listen, Holmes, the last girl-- there was no reason for her to commit suicide. She just got engaged to be married to a very nice young man from a good family and was about to start grad work at Cambridge... She had plane tickets to Thailand for a holiday with her new fiance, for God's sake!"

"Graham, I understand that the victim was the daughter of your wife's sister," Sherlock said after a few respectful moments of silence. "Her father was just knighted last year, wasn't he?"

"His name is Greg," I corrected Sherlock irritably. He had known the man for several years. Why could he never remember Lestrade's first name? "I'm very sorry for your loss, Detective Lestrade."

The DCI nodded briefly to acknowledge my condolences, then cleared his throat before speaking. "I have known Sadie since she was in her mother's womb. She grew up with my own kids. I am telling you, she would not have ended her life by her own hand."

"The Chief Superintendent barred you from this case, didn't he?" said Sherlock. "You're too close to the matter to remain objective. He put Dimmock in charge of it, instead."

I exhaled heavily as I realized why the New Scotland Yard pulled Detective Inspector Dimmock from our case. I was worried that there was some kind of conspiracy and the security of my children was at risk because of dirty cops and politicians. The metal fist that had a death grip on my heart loosened a little and I was able to relax for a short time.

Lestrade leaned over and gestured for us to come close. "This is Ronnie's first big case since his return from medical leave. I don't want him to think I'm trying to undermine him, so please, do not let him know that I've asked for your assistance on this."

"He seems all right," Sherlock said, sitting back against his chair. "He's developed a bit of a nervous tic in his right eye, but it shouldn't be permanent. His gait and stance appear normal, considering the parts of him that were more heavily injured."

Sherlock had already relayed to me a bit of what happened to Dimmock during his last case. He and Sergeant Donovan were tracking a serial killer who was targeting sex workers. They came across a woman who escaped from the killer and was willing to testify against him in court. Sherlock figured out that the woman was actually an accomplice to the killer, just as Dimmock was transporting her to a secure location. The woman ended up overpowering Dimmock and absconding with him to an old warehouse in Camden, where she tortured him for days. Her serial killer lover had committed suicide while in police custody and she wanted revenge. Sherlock found the detective inspector just in time to save his life.

Lestrade reached out and put his hand on Sherlock's arm. "Holmes, I need you to find the bastard who is killing all these young women. Not just for my wife's sake, but the families of the other victims. Their daughters and sisters were stolen from them by this phantom, who wants the public to believe, for some reason, that these young women did themselves in."

"Control," I blurted. "It's all about control. The killer is specifically targeting successful, affluent young women to show that even though they seem to have it all, they are all still rotting from the inside out. He gets his kicks persuading his victims to kill themselves."

Sherlock's eyes were bright and alive as he turned in his chair to look at me. "But how is he doing it, Kayako? Surely he's not holding a gun to their heads to make them jump off a building..." His head pivoted toward Lestrade. "What did the toxicology reports reveal? Was there anything like rohypnol or GHB in the bodies of the young women?"

Lestrade shook his head. "There were no drugs found in Sadie except alcohol."

"Was the autopsy done at St. Bart's?" demanded Sherlock. When Lestrade confirmed it, he asked, "Stamford or Hooper?"

He was probably hoping Lestrade would say Molly Hooper. If it were she, he'd be able to get all the information he wanted and probably carte blanche to examine the body himself. He had her wrapped around his finger, that poor woman.

According to Watson's blog, Sherlock could be considered an expert in forensics, even though the latter had no formal training. He knew everything there was to know about the human Anatomy and all manners of scientific and mathematical disciplines. He was, however, rubbish when it came to popular culture... and common practical knowledge, such as the solar system.

"You're kidding?" was what I said to the Watsons after I managed not to spray the breakfast table with a mouthful of coffee.

John Watson had been amused by my puzzlement. "Holmes considers his brain as a very efficient hard drive with a limited amount of space, so he doesn't like to fill it with what he calls useless trivia. He needs the capacity, he says, to absorb and process more relevant information pertaining to each case."

"So... he literally only functions to solve crime?"

I couldn't discern the look the Watsons gave me at the time, but it had been Mary who reached out to squeeze my hand and say, "Yup."

"Molly did the autopsy," said Lestrade. "And you know she always does a bang-up job, Sherlock. There isn't anyone better than Molly Hooper."

The consulting detective appeared to be considering the police detective's words before nodding briefly in agreement. "How exactly would you like me to prioritize these cases, Lestrade?"

The chief detective inspector muttered some vulgarities under his breath and returned to his side of the large desk. But he didn't sit until he had kicked in a dent on the side of a metal file cabinet. "Bugger off, Sherlock. How can you ask me something like that?"

It was a valid question. I could understand why Lestrade would be upset. But maybe this was something they should discuss when I wasn't hanging around. I suddenly felt so awkward that I had the urge to adjust my sleeves and collar.

"Lestrade, top brass was right to bar you from this case and you damn well know it." The languor from his posture disappeared and he looked at the police detective like a psychoanalyst evaluating a new patient. "Your emotions get the better of you. You don't have the required objectivity to handle a case like this. You don't have the imagination, either, but the latter isn't your fault. Most people don't."

"Objectivity?" Lestrade sputtered, his face turning red. "That's funny coming from you, Holmes, considering that you're practically shacked up with Mrs. Carter here. I see the way you look at her. You would risk everything, including your life, to protect her, even if she just made it to the top of the suspect list."

"Wait, what?" I couldn't believe my ears. Was he insinuating I had anything to do with my husband's death? I clutched the armrests of my chair.

"Pretty interesting background you have, Mrs. Carter," Lestrade said with a leer, tossing a file folder across the table to me. "Your father was a high-ranking member of the Yamaguchi-gumi and you yourself is a person of interest with Interpol, Kayako Tokugawa. A real-life Yakuza princess in hiding."

My hand clasped my throat as I momentarily struggled to breathe. I looked at Sherlock in despair. He told me the police weren't even looking into my past. _What a fool I have been_. I thought about my children and whimpered inwardly. What would become of them?

"Were you aware, Sherlock, of the budding Yakuza activity that has been going on in King's Cross for the last few years?" Lestrade demanded harshly. "The most active one is the Kawada gang: they deal mostly in drugs, armed robbery, contract-killing, and sex-trafficking."

The blood in my veins froze like ice upon my hearing this. Kawada Matsuo was my older brother Ryuji's godfather and a powerful Yakuza boss like my father. Kawada-san had three children: twin boys the same age as my brother and a girl who is a few years younger than me. He and my father were like brothers who escaped poverty in Okinawa by joining the Yakuza. My father was always the cold tactician, while Kawada-san was the battering ram. Even as a girl, I sensed the constant underlying anger that brewed just beneath his skin. He was a hungry dragon looking to devour a village, yet my father saw him merely as a hot-headed younger brother with excess energy to burn.

"I've been out of the gang for nearly ten years, detective," I replied haltingly, hating myself for the quiver I heard in my own voice. "I came to England from America to start a new life. I haven't been in touch with anyone in the Yakuza for a long time. That includes my blood relatives."

"She wasn't even aware that her father had died, Lestrade," Sherlock added. "She abandoned the Yakuza way a long time ago."

I laughed in spite of the roiling bitterness inside of me. "My kids are barely aware they're half Japanese. I doubt they even know what chopsticks are for."

"She hasn't had any contact with the Yamaguchi-gumi in a decade, Lestrade. Let it go." That was not a request. It was a demand and held an underlying tone of warning.

From the tightening of Lestrade's mouth, it was obvious he recognized it as such. But he had been dealing with Sherlock Holmes for far too long and refused to be bullied by him. "Lest you forget, I am still in charge of Mrs. Carter's case, Holmes. I will investigate whatever avenue I deem necessary."

When Sherlock's response came about, his first few words almost sounded like a growl. "I warn you, Lestrade, that you don't unnecessarily invite the attention of the Yakuza on their heads. They are on the hunt for Jim Carter's wife. My sources haven't yet confirmed if they know that Mrs. Carter was a former member of the Yakuza."

Lestrade made an exhaling noise that sounded like defeat and dropped his gaze to the pile of reports on his desk, as though he were trying to avoid looking at us. "I've been trying to hold up the case for you all this time, so you could take care of this before Interpol started snooping around. The 14K tip you gave me was a good one. I'm having a couple of my guys watching that vegan Chinese place. It's owned by a dummy company called Sunshine Unlimited. All of our research is pointing us to Michael Tong as the owner of the whole kit and caboodle. A British-born Chinese subject who studied at both Oxford and Cambridge, racking up master degrees. He used to be engaged to the younger sister of Lee Chung-Sheng." Covering his eyes with one hand, he peered at us through his fingers. "You're not still planning on spying on Lee Chung-Sheng, are you?"

"More than ever," Sherlock responded with an offended sniff. " _Oh, Sherlock, I meant to tell you, old sold, that Lee Chung-Sheng and the 14K have been honeymooning these last few days_. And what's this rubbish about Interpol now?"

"The Chief Superintendent got anxious that there hasn't been a big development in the case, so when Interpol came buzzing around, he said the New Scotland Yard would be happy to accept their help. I told the CS to hold them off until I have something more definitive to give them. Holmes, we're running out of time."

Sherlock exploded upward from his chair and began to pace the tiny area in front of the police detective's desk. "Okay, I need everyone to shut up now because I need to think." He buried his hands in his thick, wavy hair and groaned in frustration. "Bloody hell, why didn't I factor in the bleeding Interpol?"

"Oh, gee, I don't know, Holmes. Maybe it's because you've been distracted?" Lestrade was speaking to Sherlock, but the dirty look, he reserved for me.

The Interpol getting involved would be very bad, indeed. Some of the people I had assassinated were foreign nationals and there was no statute of limitations for murder. I didn't even know how much they knew about me, but if they started snooping around, my life in England with the children would be over. Hell, it would be over anyway because we would be dead.

I once considered running away to a convent at the foot of the Pyrenees and taking up a life of nunnery, before I met Jim. These days, I'd been regretting that I didn't make that choice. Maybe if I had, my mother and Jim would still be alive.

Sherlock pulled out his phone from the inside pocket and I watched as his long, lean fingers flew over the screen. When he was finished, I was the first one he looked at. "I asked Mycroft to stonewall any incoming Interpol requests for a few days, so we'll have more time."

"Well done, Sherlock. Must be nice to have a high-ranking government official for a brother," Lestrade said sarcastically. "Did he ask why you've asked him to do this?"

Sherlock scoffed. "He didn't have to. My brother makes it his business to know everything about anything at any given time. He already knows about this case." He shook his head and gritted his jaw. "We've got half a week at most. One way or another, I will take care of it. Then I'll have plenty of time to look for your serial killer, Lestrade."

***

Kenji, one of Holmes' associates, told us of a new Japanese-French fusion bar slash discotheque in Lambeth that opened just three weeks ago. It's called Sukiyaki and currently trending on social media as most happening place to be for a young London urbanite, looking for a serious party vibe. Kenji said the queues were impossible, but he knew someone who could get us on the VIP list, no problem.

I initially and vehemently balked at going to a nightclub. "Are you crazy? I'm trying to keep myself alive for the sake of my children and to make sure that Jim's final work doesn't fall into the wrong hands. Sherlock, I'm not looking to get decapitated with a samurai sword on my one night out!"

He gave me a wry smile as he leaned against his fireplace and sipped his highball glass of scotch. "Ah, but it's not your only night out. Lest you forget, we have that gala at the museum two nights from now."

What kind of sick puppy was I that I was actually looking forward to the event? Sherlock had already shown me the red suede and velvet Givenchy dress to ensure that it fit properly, and of course it did. His detective's eyes never missed a thing.

Once the children were born, Jim and I basically stopped going out as a couple. We were both homebodies to begin with, and enjoyed staying in and ordering takeaway and having a movie night, versus going out to the city to have dinner and see shows. But once we became parents, the social aspect of our lives just died. Oh, Jim had plenty of mates that he spent time with on a Lads' Night occasionally, but I always chose to stay home and mind the babies. I was pretty good at keeping myself passive and hidden. I never bothered to cultivate a social circle for myself.

I never had girlfriends to go clubbing or pubbing with. Even as a younger woman in America, I kept mostly to myself because I never wanted to draw attention. I figured the full sleeve and back tattoos as well as the missing tip of my pinky, were bound to draw some questions and I've never been a fan of drawing back the curtains to talk about my personal trauma. I always believed an acquaintanceship with me would be dangerous for anyone.

It was how I found myself standing in front of a mirror with Constable Lily Mendoza, who was helping me choose an outfit for my _date_ with Sherlock Holmes. I didn't have anything appropriate to wear, so Lily brought over a selection of dresses for me to choose from.

Unfortunately, she's a little more padded in the boobs and bum areas, so the dresses weren't a great fit. But Lily said all I had to was pick one and she would help me make it work. As far as the constable knew, Sherlock and I were going out on a real date. I didn't see the need to disabuse her of the notion.

Lily held a spaghetti-strapped, knee-length green dress against my front and nodded at the mirror in approval. "This is it. It really complements your complexion and brings out the hazel in your eyes."

The dress had a really low back and would not adequately cover my tattoos. I shuddered at the thought being so exposed. "Ummm... it's a little naked, don't you think?"

Lily rolled her eyes. "You've got a nice body, sista. Don't be afraid to show it off." She held up a short green jacket the same shade as the dress. "It comes with this adorable bolero, okay? You can stay Miss Prim and Proper, if you want, but I think you should go all out and stun the socks off Sherlock."

I chuckle and ask why.

"I want to see what Sherlock looks like when he's in love. I always saw him as asexual. There's wagers at the precinct on whether or not he's a virgin, you know. For a while, people even thought he and Dr. Watson were a thing."

 _Ohhh no_ , Sherlock definitely knew what he was doing that night he left me panting and half-dead. The man was as deft with his fingers working sex magic on a woman as he was with the violin. God, that man sure knew where to touch me and how.

I must have signaled some kind of wistfulness, because Lily laughed and poked my hip teasingly. "Oh, my God, you're blushing."

I avoided Lily's eyes in the mirror and began to fidget with the hem of my t-shirt. I felt like a fool. My husband died just a little over a month ago, but here I was, excited like a teenage girl, to go out for the evening with the man investigating his death. What must people think of me?

I picked up a blue dress from my bed that had full back coverage and capped sleeves. I could wear lace gloves that go up to my elbows to hide the scars left behind by the lasers that removed the tattoo from my arms. "I think I'll go with this one," I said softly, handing the dress to the constable.

Lily reluctantly took it from me with a slight frown. "Aren't you guys going to that new Japanese-French fusion nightclub in Lambeth? You should wear something with a little more pizazz, babe." 

I shook my head as I suddenly felt the most absurd need to cry. "No. It's not really a date-date, Constable. Mr. Holmes just probably feels bad for me and thinks taking me out for the evening would be a nice thing to do."

Lily stared at me and scoffed. "Kayako, Sherlock doesn't operate that way. Sergeant Donovan says he doesn't _do_ anything just for the sake of it. Every little action of his is always part of a bigger plan."

She must have realized immediately that what she said upset me because she began to profusely apologize. "Oh no, Kayako, I'm forever sticking my foot in my mouth. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply..."

I lifted my chin, so I could meet her gaze, and sighed. She really was mortified that she could say such a thing unwittingly. "Don't get your knickers in a twist over it, Lily. It's not a big deal. It _is_ a little unseemly that I should be going out with another man when I haven't even buried my husband yet."

"Oh, but that's not what I-- hey, why don't we finish up your hair and makeup? Didn't you say Holmes was picking you up at seven?"

I had segments of my hair wrapped around hot curlers, so she helped me pull the dress over my head. As she was securing it on me with the help of safety pins, so it wouldn't be so loose, I noticed Helena standing in my open doorway, watching us with wide eyes.

"Hey, bunny-face. Aren't you going to come in and give mummy a hug and a kiss?"

My daughter trudged toward me as though her legs weighed two stones each and her head down like her curly locks were just as heavy. She wrapped her arms around me, buried her face in my stomach, and inhaled, seemingly breathing me in.

"Mummy, you smell weird." She loosened her hold on me and lifted her chin so I could see her face. "Why are you getting all dressed up and pretty?"

"I told you, lass, Mr. Holmes and I are going to a nice dinner, then maybe do some dancing, afterwards."

My daughter crossed her eyes and made a funny face. "Mum, that's silly. Mr. Holmes can't dance. He's a robot. He'd look like this."

She ran to the middle of my room, then stopped, and stood ramrod-straight and still. Her eyes lost all sparkle and joy as she began to stare into empty space and tried to keep her mouth closed and her lips straight, until her face resembled that of porcelain doll. Then she stiffly extended her arms in front of her and lifted her forearm with her hand open toward the ceiling, then back to its original position, and did the same with her other arm. She did it again, only her arms went out to her sides instead, right first, then left, before returning to formation. She repeated these in tandem with her small, marching feet, with slow, controlled movements.

Lily burst out laughing. "Oh my God, that is uncanny. You make a very fine robot, Lenny."

She stopped her little routine and looked at the both of us, arms akimbo and face skeptical. "Are you telling me you want to dance with someone like that?"

My traitorous mouth wanted to say, yes, I would dance with Sherlock at any opportunity, but instead I put on a stern expression and said, "Little girl, that wasn't very well done of you at all. You've never seen Mr. Holmes dance, so you can't pre-judge him. For all we know, he could be as good as any primo ballerino from Russia."

Helena giggled. "Boys can't be ballet dancers."

"Shows how much you know." I tickled the sides of her torso and she shrieked with laughter, doubling over in my arms. "My silly, beautiful girl. Where's your brother?"

"Doing jigsaw puzzles with Mrs. Hudson," she answered, rolling her eyes. "I told him if he keeps doing them, he'll turn into an old woman. He even asked Mrs. Hudson if she could teach him how to knit."

I met Lily's gaze. She had her hand over her mouth--to keep herself from laughing, I guess-- but her eyes sparkled and danced with merriment. "Don't start," I warned her under my breath.

She had to make it look like her laughing was actually a violent coughing fit and almost choked to death in her efforts. Helena asked if Lily wanted her to fetch some water to drink from the kitchen.

Lily managed to get a hold of herself after a deep breath. She wiped off her tears with the inside of her shirt from the neckhole and lowered her head to drop a kiss on Lenny's curls. "You're a good girl, poppet. Now why don't you join Timmy and Mrs. Hudson for a little bit, so I can help your mum finish getting ready. I'll come get you in a little bit and we can watch 'Mulan' together on the couch, okay?"

"Okey-dokey. Bye, mummy! Bye, Lily!" she said before taking off.

Lily started to work on my makeup and I felt like a dummy. There I was, just sitting there, while another woman painted on my face. Growing up, I never really had the chance to be "girly." Father discouraged what he believed to be signs of weakness and that included being feminine.

"You're very good with children." I was sitting absolutely still because she was in the process of drawing a line across each eyelid, just above the root of the eyelashes, in an effort to make them look thicker.

She laughed softly. "I'm the eldest of six children."

At precisely seven in the evening, Mrs. Hudson showed up in my doorway, grinning and as giddy as a schoolgirl. "Your gentleman caller has arrived. He brought you flowers."

 _WTF_. This was crazy. The butterflies in my stomach had mutated into pterodactyls and I felt like casting my accounts upon my borrowed blue suede heels.

After freaking out in the hallway that led from bedrooms to the receiving rooms and having assured myself that I was not going to throw up, I walked to the living room on my own while Lily and Mrs. Hudson headed for the kitchen in order to give me and Sherlock privacy.

My first view of him almost knocked me back on my butt. Jesus, he was gorgeous. Like a European male model, he stood by the coffee table with his natural poise and grace in a suit obviously tailored to his form. When he turned around to face me, I actually gasped out loud. The suit was a light charcoal and the button-down down shirt underneath was a deep purple. He was carrying a small bouquet of red roses.

He seemed to have sized me up in one quick glance. "Kayako, you are a work of art. Absolutely splendid."

I was so out of breath that I momentarily experienced vertigo. With a shaky smile, I said, "Oh, this old thing? It was just something I scraped up together in five minutes."

His grin was positively wolfish. "Your resourcefulness never fails to astound me, Mrs. Carter."


	11. Sherlock at the Disco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Kayako visit a Japanese nightclub in Lambeth to investigate its owners, who turn out to be connected to Kayako's mysterious past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is narrated from the first person POV of an original female character.

In the taxicab ride to Lambeth, nothing else in the world existed but Sherlock Holmes. Outside sounds muted, lights of the city faded, and time seemed to stop still. I became fully aware of his scent--a combination of peppermint, sandalwood, bergamot, and lemons-- and for a moment, all I could hear were my breathing and the beating of my heart. 

He sat close to me, just inches away, with his arm resting casually on top of the backrest of our seat, so that his presence hovered over my shoulders like a shawl, and yet none of him were in contact with any of me. He was not touching me at all. My hands ached to reach out to him, to get my skin next to his, but the only part of him that wasn't covered by clothing was his head. 

He was wearing black leather gloves and his ever present scarf, this one periwinkle in color. Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes didn't dress with panache. At least he didn't have on his black ulster coat, the one he wore like an armor. That one sat next to him, folded neatly by the door. 

Sherlock might as well wear a Hazmat suit whenever he ventured outside his flat. I'd guess it was his way of distancing or insulating himself from everyone and everything around him. Or maybe I'm romanticizing the whole thing and he's just damn cold all the time. 

Nevertheless, his clothing choices made him untouchable--no direct contact with his skin to be had-- unless he trusted you enough to touch his face and hair, but his supercilious, Arctic attitude ensured everyone kept their hands off his person. I'd yet to see anyone touch him affectionately. My soul ached each time I wondered when the last time anyone gave him an honest to goodness embrace and he was receptive of it. 

It was right then that an insidious thought wormed its way to the top of my consciousness. Did my breath reek of garlic? Appalled, I covered my mouth. For dinner, we went to an Italian restaurant called Antonio's, whose owner greeted Sherlock enthusiastically and inquired after Watson. He had been thrilled to see Sherlock with a "proper young lady." Surreptitiously, I opened my small clutch, so I could get to my tin of spearmint. When Sherlock wasn't looking, I popped a mint into my mouth. 

"Are you unwell, Kayako?" he asked in his deep, dark baritone, shattering the wall of quiescense between us. 

My body tensed up for several beats. Could he read minds? Did he figure out that I'd spent the last few minutes brooding over him? I called myself a ninny and took a deep breath with a slow exhale to settle my nerves. "Maybe a little. We're literally walking into enemy territory, Sherlock, and have no weapons or backup."

"I should hate for you to get engaged in battle tonight with you looking so lovely," he said wryly. "Multiple sources of mine have verified independently the key persons we'll have to watch out for in there and I did a bit of scoping myself last night after I secured you in your home."

I felt my eyebrows go up. "You did?"

He smirked at me. "Of course I did. I've been checking out bars and pubs where Japanese and Chinese nationals have been known to congregate practically every night these last couple of weeks."

My cheeks burned and I avoided his probing gaze. There was, of course, that one night when he was busy doing something else. Which he had enjoyed, by the way, he made sure to tell me. I didn't think he would ever bring up that night again and I was right. There hadn't been any indications from him that he was keen to repeat the encounter. 

But I shouldn't even be bothering with any of that. There was seriously something wrong with me. I was supposed to be focusing all of my mental energies on finding the people responsible for slaughtering my husband, so they can be brought to justice, and the children and I wouldn't have to spend the rest of our lives looking over shoulders and could maybe pursue a semblance of a normal existence. Instead, I was fixating on a night with a man who was probably just bored and wanted to try something he had only read about in books. 

_Stop this, you fool._ Was I that thirsty? My husband literally just died thirty-six days ago and here I was, nursing a schoolgirl's crush on a man, about whom I'd been warned, possessed neither a conscience nor heart. Ugh, I had never before experienced anything like this. Falling and being in love with Jim had been a pleasant experience. Before that, there was really just one other person I had strong romantic feelings about and that was Haruki Kawada. To this day, I still cringed a little in shame whenever I thought about how foolish I'd been over him. 

"Have you ever heard word of my brother being in London?" As the words came out of my mouth, a barrage of memories threatened to spill and overpower me, but I resisted it. Now was not the time to go down that particular yellow brick road. 

My brother gifted me the knife I had used to slash an American ex-pat's throat. He had been trying to hone in on the karaoke coffee shop niche market and one of my father's colleagues, who owned a few hip karaoke joints in Tokyo wanted to cut out the competition, so he called in a favor from my father. 

"Tokugawa Ryuji. He's slowly taking over your father's operations in Japan, but not having an easy time of it. The Elders don't trust him because he lived in America too long."

Ryuji took care of my father's business dealings in the Bay Area, Los Angeles, Seattle, and New York. Even though San Francisco was his base of operations, he was estranged from me and our mother, a third generation Japanese-American who met our father during a holiday with friends in Paris after graduating university. Ryuji thought living with Mother made me soft and tainted with Western values, not truly Japanese. When I left Japan at a young age to live with my mother in America, Ryuji elected to stay behind with Father. 

But just like me, he spent three months out of a year with the other parent. When it was my turn to visit my father, Ryuji also had to uproot himself and visit our mother. This was the agreement my parents settled on when they split up and my father, who I believed remained in love with our mother, honored it for several years. 

"You don't have to worry about seeing him tonight, Kayako." Sherlock picked up my hand and gave it a tender squeeze. "The Kawada gang has been the strongest Yakuza presence in the U.K. for years."

I was so startled by his gesture of comfort that the wires in my brain must have short-circuited and I couldn't think of anything to say in response. But it didn't matter because the cab was just pulling up in front of _Sukiyaki_ and I had to stop being a useless, infatuated idiot. I couldn't afford to be distracted. One major mistake tonight would make everything a thousand times worse. 

Sherlock paid the driver and exited the cab first to put on his black Belstaf coat, flipping the collar up. Only then did he go around to my side of the car and opened the door for me. 

He offered me his gloved hand for assistance, which I gladly accepted because I didn't wear dresses and high heels very often and wasn't feeling particularly graceful. Once I was standing on the kerb next to him, he looked down at me and smiled. The blue of his eyes appeared silver in the moonlight. 

He brushed some wayward strands of hair out of my face and shifted my bolero jacket into place. "Forgive me for being an inconsiderate heel, Kayako. You must be freezing in that outfit. Let me give you my coat."

Sherlock Holmes without his long, black coat? Perish the thought. I gave him the cheeriest smile I could muster. "Don't be silly. We'll be inside soon enough. Besides, your coat would be gigantic on me. It would just drag on the ground and I'd look ridiculous."

He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. "You could be holding a live duck on top of your head and manage not to look ridiculous, Mrs. Carter."

No, I didn't need his coat. Just his proximity and words were enough to warm me. "Where could I even find a live duck if I wanted to? Don't they all fly south for the winter?"

The queue for Sukiyaki was maybe thirty people deep, all of them dressed to the nines, from Bristol-smart to High Street-posh. The club used to be a bowling alley, then it went out of business after twenty-five years, most likely because a new generation of consumers and residents moved in and it became surrounded with pubs, titty bars, and discotheques. For the several months it was shut down, it was home to squatters, burnouts, and dossheads. 

Sherlock experienced it firsthand because he went undercover as a crackhead for a couple of months two years ago. He had been so convincing that his friends staged an intervention for him. Lestrade even made Molly Hooper perform urine tests on him regularly to ensure he was clean. I laughed at the very idea of this because it was just at the height of absurdity that a man as rigid and self-disciplined as Sherlock Holmes could fall prey to such a... mundane addiction. Didn't his supposed friends know him at all? 

Sherlock and I ignored the throng of people staring at us and marched right over to the tall Japanese woman, wearing some futuristic, Bladerunner-type kimono in silver, standing behind a velvet rope and holding an iPad. Next to her stood a man of imposing height and breadth, as well as indeterminate race. He was quite dark, but his facial features were Japanese. Dressed in an all-black, three-piece suit and a one carat diamond stud piercing his left ear, he exuded the attitude of a man who had never been told "no" his entire life and had probably never been knocked down on his arse, either. 

"Names?" demanded the Japanese woman in a bored monotone. 

"William Scott and Karen Lee," Sherlock stated, his tone confident and sharp. 

My nervousness dissipated as soon as Sherlock slapped a different name on me. I was good at being someone else. This, I could do. 

"Premium VIP," the hostess said with obvious skepticism. She scanned the both of us from toe to head as though she had an implant in her visual cortex that provided her information about us, like our biometrics and vital statistics. Her eyes momentarily brightened with interest as she surveyed Sherlock, but when she turned her attention to me, her delicate nose crinkled like she smelled something bad. She definitely did not think of me as Premium VIP material. She pivoted at the waist and summoned another black-clad bouncer type standing behind her like one of the Queen's guards. 

As soon as he moved from his position and approached her, I became aware of four more guys like him, each one stationed at no doubt strategic locations. They were all tall, broad-shouldered, and vaguely Asiatic. I bet Sherlock knew where they were the whole time. After all, he did scope the place out ahead of time. I castigated myself for missing something so important. This evening of all evenings, I could not afford to be careless. 

The hostess whispered something in Japanese to the guard, but I didn't catch it. The blank-faced man nodded briefly and strode to the nightclub's entrance, disappearing behind the solid-looking, black doors, presumably to execute the hostess's order. 

"Is there a problem?" Sherlock's tone was glacial and carried with it a poshness of someone who grew up in a country manor that had a name. He was looking at the hostess with pure disdain, as though he were affronted to be inconvenienced in this manner.

Sherlock Holmes could pull off high-stepping toff, if the situation called for it. It helped, of course, that he spoke in that sonorous, authoritative voice with an accent that boasted an Oxford education as well as a privileged background. As Mary Watson said, he could be telling you utter rubbish and you'd believe him because of his voice and attitude. The man must be able to detect things normal humans can't, since he's always such a supercilious, know-it-all dickhead about everything. 

I believed Sherlock was just hyper-aware of his surroundings. He'd tell me from time to time that people see, but they do not observe nor process immediately what little detail they do manage to stumble upon. 

The young lady tried to stare down Sherlock with a practiced cruelty that I'm sure worked on lesser humans, but Sherlock was an Englishman through and through. He had generations of aristocratic snobbery coded into his DNA. And he had the cheekbones. 

"This is a very popular nightclub that can afford to be choosy with its clientele, sir. I'm just making--" She stopped suddenly and brought a hand up to her ear, which contained a barely noticeable listening device. When she looked at us again, her expression had completely changed. "I apologize for the misunderstanding, Mr. Scott. I meant no disrespect. Kaito here will escort you to your section."

I glanced up and saw the two, small black domes that concealed security cameras mounted on the ceiling above her head. Of course, we were being watched. I wondered who was on the other side of the monitor that gave the go-ahead.

Sherlock tugged my arm gently and together we followed the nightclub security called Kaito inside. He was tall, lean, and most likely in his mid-twenties. He looked like a Vogue photoshoot version of a nightclub bouncer in a James Bond movie. I couldn't see any hints of a tattoo above the collar of his shirt, but that didn't mean he didn't have them. 

We stopped at a coat check where Sherlock surrendered his beloved Milford trench coat and scarf to a Eurasian girl called Kiki, in charge of the stand. Suddenly, I felt compelled to comfort him. He just shed one layer of his armor, after all. I slipped my arm through the crook of his elbow and pressed myself closer to his body. 

He glanced down at me with surprise for an instant and then he smiled, the sides of his eyes crinkling like tiny fans. He reached down for my other hand and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss. 

The sensation of his warm mouth on my skin sent me reeling, but I quickly told myself to get a grip. _Put a leash on your love jones, girlfriend_. Now was not the time to get excited like a fourteen-year-old boy at the prospect of seeing his first pair of titties.

Sherlock was just playing a part. He and I were just two ordinary people who heard about this snazzy, chic nightclub, and wanted to check it out for ourselves for a thrill. Two normal Londoners on a night out, completely unaware of the Yakuza and major drug deals. 

The music was trip-hop with a sampling of those old Japanese melodies my Obasaan used to listen to while doing her weaving. It wasn't even nine-thirty yet, so the music was still a bit down-tempo and had more of a "chillaxed" vibe. The scent that permeated the atmosphere was jasmine mixed with vanilla flavored tobacco smoked from a hookah. 

The club, however, was almost at full capacity. There were three expansive floors dedicated to debauchery and excess, yet each of them were already filled with bodies dressed to impress and seduce. Sometimes I had trouble with big crowds of people, so I began to get dizzy and unsteady on my feet, but Sherlock kept a good hold of me as we continued to follow Kaito. 

The area he led us to was on the second floor and in a special cordoned off section that had two bouncers standing at the entrance. The space was a whole quarter of the floor and had its own bar. Within it were a handful of semi-circular booths with black leather seats, along with overstuffed sofas and sleek chaise longues. The table girls serving drinks, all Asian, were almost doll-like in their similar looks and outfits. 

The people already seated in the Premium VIP were the young, moneyed people of London-- TV show presenters, offspring of aristocrats, fashion models, entrepreneurs, and some B-list celebrities. Earlier, I looked up how much it would cost for bottle service and couldn't believe the price. It ranged anywhere from fifteen hundred to ten thousand pounds. And then there was the third floor, which had a swimming pool, and rented cabanas at a minimum of ten thousand pounds. A club-goer couldn't even go up there if they didn't have a special bracelet. What the hell went on there, anyway? Did the club offer top models with tight bodies on which the clientele could snort some premium, Grade-A blow? Could you do tequila shots off the washboard abs of your all-time favorite Big Brother contestant? For that much money, I better get seated in a booth sandwiched between Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hardy. 

What kind of people would spend an obscene amount of money to experience a few hours of bacchanalia and nothing more to show for it the next day except a hangover or at worse, an STI? 

Sherlock placed his hand on the small of my back to guide me to the booth that Kaito told us was ours. I could feel the eyes of the other clubbers on us as we passed them. They were most likely wondering who we were and if we were important enough to merit their attention. 

Sherlock walked on as though the others were merely subjects he was gracing with his presence and I followed his lead. These people were beneath us. They should be falling all over themselves, vying to be the first one to greet us. 

As soon as we were situated, a pretty bottle girl came up to our booth, dressed in long, red and black, traditional cheongsam with a side slit that went up to her upper thigh. Her black hair was gathered in a top knot and decorated with silver chopsticks, bells, and ribbons. When she spoke, she had a heavy Japanese accent. 

"I'll have the MacAllan on the rocks, year twenty-five, if you have it. Otherwise, I'll take a Hibiki 17 or Knappogue Castle 16. My lady will have a champagne cocktail," Sherlock ordered with ease of an aristocrat who was used to having his commands obeyed. "Oh, and bring the bottle."

I asked in Japanese if we could also have a couple of glasses of water. I attempted to engage her in conversation, asking her where she was from and how she was liking the job, but she only smiled and bowed before leaving our table. 

"Hey," I said to Sherlock, who was sitting next to me with his arm resting on the backrest above my shoulders. "I don't think that girl speaks Japanese."

My companion's blue eyes danced with merriment. Abruptly, he dropped his hand to my shoulder and drew me close to him. His lips brushed the shell of my ear when he whispered to me. "Be careful with your words. They gave us this table because it's equipped with listening devices."

I trembled with desire and my toes curled inside my shoes despite the gravity of the situation. I pinched the inside of my wrist hard to regain my focus. "How do you know?"

His amusement came through even with his whispering. "I developed an API for my phone that specifically detects transmission of low-power radio waves via short-range communication devices."

I almost told him he was fantastic, but thought he got too much of that already from his adoring fans, like Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper. He didn't need me to also hail him a genius. "Well done," was all I could come up with. 

When the server returned with our drinks, behind her followed a man with a familiar face that I just couldn't put a name to. The woman alongside him, however, was someone I knew very well. She noticed the moment I recognized her and her little, cunning smile widened to a grin. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. I reminded myself of the ice-picks I had hidden in the chopsticks that secured my hair and the blade under the false bottom of my clutch. 

Yeah, like they were going to be enough to get us out of trouble if shit started to go sideways. Sherlock's hand tightened on my shoulder as if he were trying to reassure me. 

The server was carrying a tray that held a bucket of ice, two highball glasses, a bottle of Hibiki, and one champagne flute sparkling golden with a lovely skewer of maraschino cherries on top. She didn't seem to realize that there were two scary people behind her, for she didn't seem to be in any kind of hurry. It was only after she set our drink orders down on the table, bowed, and backed away that she bumped into the tall, solidly-built Japanese man in a three-piece suit behind her. 

The expression on her face was pure mortification. "Oh my God, Sir, I'm right sorry. I di'int mean to-"

Her accent was suddenly full-on Brixton. 

The man put his hands on her shoulders and the look on his face was kind while he listened to her apology. He sent her off with a fatherly pat on the back and an "Off you go."

Next to me, Sherlock dropped two ice cubes into his glass and followed it up with the scotch, about two shots worth. He didn't seem too bothered by the couple who had just walked up to our table. "Karen, will you be a doll, my love, and give my drink a swirl with your finger? There's a good pet."

I bristled from his tone and the humiliating task he just gave me, but managed to contain my vexation. We were posing as other people, after all. "My pleasure, darling," I said, dipping the tip of my finger into the cold mixture and drawing a circle slowly. I used my middle finger, of course. 

The woman, who was watching me, smirked. 

"Mr. William Scott, we finally meet," said the Japanese man, extending his hand to my companion. "I understand we have a collaborator in common. You do business with Iggy Matsunaga as well?"

Sherlock stood and briefly clasped hands with the man. "Yes, I deal in art and antiques. Iggy has found me lucrative buyers in the past. And what is your name, friend?"

"Pardon my rudeness. I am called Sonny Kawada and this beautiful woman next to me is my cousin and business partner, Annabelle Kawada."

A well of fury rose within me as Sherlock shook her hand. All I'd ever known from Annabelle Kawada was cruelty and humiliation. Even when we met as little girls and I didn't yet fully understand what it meant to hate someone, I knew she had it in for me. But my mom always told me that I should try hard and be friends with her, no matter how difficult she was, because she really needed our love. Her mother died from an aneurysm shortly after giving birth to her. Father said it was because Annabelle was a stubborn baby and Yuki had to push and push to get her out. She was pushing so hard, Father said, that she must have burst an artery. Mom said I shouldn't believe him because it was just Father's idea of a sick joke. 

I briefly closed my eyes and took a deep breath before rising as soon as Sherlock tapped me gently on the shoulder. I didn't know how I did it, but somehow I managed to summon a friendly smile. At least that's what I hoped it was. 

"This is my girlfriend, Karen Lee," Sherlock said, slipping an arm around my waist. 

I shook hands with Sonny. I had no beef with him. He was friends with my brother and a fixture around the house. I wasn't sure if he knew me because by the time he and my brother started hanging out, I had already moved to the United States with my mother.

"You look familiar," said Annabelle with a frown, like she was thinking really hard about where she had encountered me before. 

She kept a firm grip on my hand for a beat longer than I felt was appropriate, while she scrutinized my face. To my credit, I remained calm through all this and managed to keep a blank expression, not one of recognition or acknowledgement. Before a big fight, my bpm usually slows down to about 55-60, then a blanket of calmness comes over me. That was what I was experiencing now. 

She looked into my eyes and seemed to search them for something, but soon her fire of discovery dampened when she didn't find what she was looking for. She abruptly dropped my hand and casually wiped hers on the side of her mini-dress. 

"Iggy told me you were dropping by tonight," said Sonny. "May I join you?" He indicated the available space in our booth, which was next to me. 

Sherlock looked at me briefly and waited for my nod--barely perceptible, I hope--before telling our hosts that they were welcome to join us. "Will either of you join me in consuming a good portion of the contents of this bottle? We'll just need another glass." He raised his hand over his head and made a gesture to summon a server. 

"Thank you," Annabelle said, accepting the serving of scotch that Sherlock poured for her. 

Just as she was about to pull her glass closer to her, I noticed that among the rings that decorated her hand, she had one on her pinky that covered the tip like a thimble. What infraction could she possibly have committed that would merit a punishment like mine? 

As quick as a snake, Sherlock seized her hand and flipped it topside. "A marquise-cut blue diamond. Three carats. Limited release by Harry Winston, right? Beautiful. May I?"

Startled, Annabelle could only nod. 

Sherlock produced a loupe, which had a tiny internal light, from the inside of his jacket. He held it to his eye and lowered his head over Annabelle's. After a few beats, he looked up and put away his loupe, smiling charmingly at Annabelle. "A fine investment. It's flawless."

"Oh," my childhood rival said with a girlish giggle, patting Sherlock's hand, which held hers. "Just a little birthday gift for myself last year."

I glanced down at my own hands, which were folded on my lap, and closed them into fists. I should have worn gloves tonight, damn it. If either Annabelle or Sonny saw that I was missing the tip of one finger, things could go very badly. To my surprise, I felt Sherlock's arm around me in a comforting squeeze and his cool lips on my temple. 

"Are you all right?" asked Sonny. 

"She's fine," my companion answered for me. "She just wasn't feeling a hundred percent tonight, but bastard that I am, I insisted that she come out with me, anyway."

"Oh, the poor dear. Listen, why don't we all go to the third floor and continue our little party there?" Annabelle suggested with a particular gleam in her eyes. "Plenty of fresh air and the view is fantastic."


	12. Welcome to Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Kayako explore the rest of the nightclub and find a lot more than they bargained for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is told from the first person POV of an original female character.

I was about to lose my cool. I thought I had everything in check until I saw that gold thimble on Annabelle's pinky. It was molded like a finger and even had a nail carved into the design to match the rest of her manicured hand. Seeing it made me nauseous, so I excused myself to go to the restroom. 

Which was decorated to look like those old glamour girl dressing rooms from Hollywood. Within it, the music was different and "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" as sung by Marilyn Monroe came through the speakers. The floor and the sinks were black marble with gold filigree and each large mirror above the eight sinks were studded with small yellow lights on all four sides. 

If a girl needed a minute to just get away from the loud music and people, there were a few sofas and chaise longues, as well as recliners in a separate, mellow-lit area shielded by a silk screen painted with geishas playing the mandolin, writing poetry, and brushing their hair while looking down at their reflection in the pond. 

At the end of the row of sinks sat an old Chinese woman with her gray hair pulled back in a bun, wearing traditional uniform of a blouse with a straight-neck collar and trousers, both black. Next to her was a stand-up case that held tampons, sanitary napkins, lipstick of different colors in sample sachets, perfume, mouthwash, condoms, and face towels. There was also a steaming metal container on a table next to her with a pair of tongs on top. Ah, hot towels. 

Three women looked away from their own mirrors to check me out as I walked in further into the room. I merited only a few seconds of interest, before the women returned to their previous tasks and I was ignored again. Fine by me. 

I ducked into an available stall and hung my clutch from a hook on the door. Despite the relative chill of the room, I was feeling hot and sticky. I shrugged off my bolero jacket and hung it up, too. Finally my skin could breathe. 

Even at home with my children, I wore long-sleeved shirts to cover my tattoos. I didn't want them to get used to seeing it and thinking of it as normal. When I was a girl, all the adults around me were covered with tattoos, except for my mother. My father kept her as untainted by the family business as much as he could, so she wasn't around very much when the heads of father's gangs came together to the house weekly for a meeting. In my formative years, the Yakuza was all I knew. 

I made a vow to myself that my children would never know that kind of evil and that I would never allow it to get within a mile of my doorstep. I put my hand up to my sternum as I struggled to take in my next breath of air. The world was getting too damn small. Maybe it was time to seek out my mother's relatives and move back to America with the children. 

Hearing some outraged gasps and shrieked obscenities from the women outside my stall, I froze for a moment in panic. Someone who had no business being in the ladies' room had joined us and the women were not shy about expressing their displeasure. 

"Get out of here, you pervert," cried a woman with an Irish accent. "Are you daft? The little lad's room is across the way."

"Fucking wanker," said another woman. "Get out, get out now, dickead. My boyfriend is one of the bouncers and he's going to yank your spine out of your arsehole. You are going to be sooo banned from this place!"

I put my bolero jacket back on and retrieved a stiletto blade from the bottom of my clutch. Very carefully, I stepped onto the toilet seat so my feet wouldn't be seen and with my heart pounding in my ears, I tried to think of the best way to escape without being detected. 

"Be silent, all of you," said a deep, masculine voice in a firm, but dispassionate demand. "You will walk out of here in a calm and orderly manner, without alerting anyone of the current situation. Should you feel the need to have hysterics and attempt to make something out of nothing, people will get hurt and you three will be responsible for it. Am I making myself clear?"

"Oh, sod off, you-"

"Yes, sir, we understand," said one of the other women. "Amy, shut your trap and let's go."

"But I haven't gone yet- Tawny, you bitch, let me go."

After a few more seconds of argument among the women, which was cut short by a very terse, "Go," the restroom door swung open, bringing with it the thumping music of the nightclub, and then a disquieting calmness accompanied with the soft singing voice of Rita Moreno in the background. 

I stepped off from toilet seat and reoriented myself with the tiled floor, all the while inhaling and exhaling deeply so that I could silence the roaring in my ears. I slid the blade back into the secured spot in my clutch. I knew who it was outside my stall, but I still couldn't let my guard down. What was he doing here, anyway? He couldn't wait a couple of minutes for me to come out? 

"Karen." He knocked twice on my stall door. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Will," I replied with a heavy sigh of relief, remembering in time to call him by his alias. William. The old-fashioned name suited him. It felt almost as natural to call him that, like Sherlock. I'd bet that's why he picked it. He looked like a William. 

I pulled my dress down to straighten it and patted my hair, hoping I looked like everything was fine and dandy. I unlocked the stall door and walked out, only to get almost knocked down by the solid pillar that was Sherlock Holmes. 

He was quick to catch my elbows and kept me from falling on my butt. "I was concerned about you. When Annabelle Kawada came up to our table, you looked like you were going to faint, though I know you're made of sterner stuff. It must have been a bit of a shock, nevertheless."

I took a moment to lean against him and revel in his strength, pretending to be gathering my bearings. My hands closed on the muscles of his upper arms through his suit. "Yeah, I guess. I haven't seen any of the Kawadas in several years."

I flinched when he reached toward my face and pushed my hair back out of my eyes. "You look particularly bothered by Annabelle Kawada, my sweet. She recognized you, you know."

"I know." I rubbed the goosebumps that sprouted on my arm. "I hope you're not implying that I'd allow my emotions to trip me up." 

He raised one eyebrow, but didn't say anything. 

I pushed myself away from him, desperate to get some distance between us. "We had a stupid girlish rivalry at one point, Mr. Scott, but that is the extent of it. I have no personal beef against her."

"Never even entered my mind," he said glibly. "I'm just trying to make sure you're keen to keep going, since you're already having trouble, just being in this atmosphere. It's not your cup of tea, is it, darling?"

The endearments were killing me, even though I knew he was just playing a role. I glanced at the old woman, still sitting in her station, blank-faced, ambivalent to what was going on in front of her. It had to be a survival skill of some sort that she had developed over the years: see, hear, and say nothing. 

Which reminded me of how quickly the consulting detective got rid of the other women. His voice was cold and robotic to be sure, and he did possess the arrogance of a peer that would have intimidated some people. But those women didn't look like the type a bloke could easily push around. 

I heard exactly what he said to them, but surely he must have done something else that scared them away. "How did you get those women out of here?"

He gave me a look that said it would pain him to answer something so obvious and mundane. "People tend to believe the worst of me, pet. They make their own assumptions of what I'm capable of doing based on that and whatever they know of my reputation." 

Ah, the self-described "high-functioning sociopath." He had glacial blue eyes that could see right into the marrow of your bones, but if you dared to do the same to him, you would find only the abyss waiting to devour you. At least that was what I'd been told by numerous people these past few weeks. I had found out for myself, however, that Sherlock Holmes was just a man. A highly unusual and extremely intelligent man, but just a man.

"Yeah, I'm sure you gave them your patented Sherlockian serial killer smile, sport. That always gets 'em." I patted the lapel of his suit jacket, relieved that my heart rate was on its way back to normal. All right, I'm cool, I'm calm. 

Without warning, he pulled me into his arms and covered my mouth with his own. My knees instantly turned to water and it was a good thing I was clinging to him like a barnacle or I would have collapsed to the ground. His hands slid down to my hips, gently squeezing my flesh, slowly making their way to my butt, until he was able to cup them. Only then did he hoist me up against him, so I could feel his erection against my mound, throbbing through my dress. 

Even with my initial shock, I responded naturally to him, molding my body to his, and reaching up to plunge my fingers into the base of his thick, curly hair. I opened my mouth to his sweet invasion, tasting him, savoring him. Scotch and peppermint. I breathed in his clean, masculine scent, luxuriating within all I could have him. Molten heat flooded the apex of my thighs. Visions of us naked and entwined in bed together flashed before my very eyes. 

It seemed to go on forever and I longed to wrap my legs around his waist as his breath became heavier and his kiss more urgent. But just as suddenly as it began, it ended. He was setting me back down as the door to the restroom opened and four women walked in. 

"The club has clever, little nooks all over specifically for snogging, you know," a skinny blond woman in a red dress said laughingly. "You're liable to get kicked out if you get caught in here."

"Like good ole Frankie did last week, the dirty slag," her dark-haired friend added before going into one of the stalls. 

My face burned in mortification. Oh my God, what was I doing, making out with a man in a public restroom like a horny teen when we were supposed to be on a mission? I grabbed Sherlock's hand and tugged on him toward the exit. 

"I say get it where you can," a tall, gorgeous black woman says, sizing up Sherlock appreciatively. "Get it good, girl."

We left the restroom with the women hooting and hollering behind us. God, I had never in my life acted so indiscreetly. But the man who was still clutching my hand in his made me feel and do things I never thought I would. When he noticed me looking at him, he smiled and lifted my hand to his mouth, so he could kiss the inside of my wrist. 

I was so enthralled with the sensation of his lips on my skin that I almost didn't notice that Annabelle and Sonny were coming straight for us until we almost walked right into them. 

My childhood nemesis gave me a once-over and smirked. "I was wondering where the two of you got to. On the third floor, you can rent special private cabanas stocked with toys, costumes, and anything else you might need to fulfill your dark desires."

Realization hit me like a slap across the face and all at once, I felt stupid and humiliated. Of course there was a reason that Sherlock suddenly turned into Pepe LePew and practically ravished me in the restroom. He must have known that they were watching him as he went in there, so he had to make it look like he could no longer contain his passion and had to go after me, even to the women's restroom. 

I was certain that my face was the color of ripe tomatoes because my blood was boiling. For the first time since I fully acknowledged my visceral attraction to Sherlock Holmes, I didn't want him touching me. My skin itched everywhere it came in contact with his. His hands were planted on my shoulders, so I tried to subtly shrug them off, but either he didn't take the hint or chose to ignore it, because on my shoulders they firmly stayed. It took all of my resolve not to reach behind me and break both of his wrists. 

Sherlock chuckled indulgently; the rich, silky sound bringing to mind dark chocolate served with freshly whipped cream. "We were that obvious, were we?" He swept my hair off my neck so he could press a kiss there. "I just cannot keep my hands off this beautiful woman."

I pictured slamming my heel into his instep and smashing his nose with the back of my fist. It made me feel a little better. "He's a bit of a devil, this one."

"I guess your nightclub does succeed in bring out the wickedness in everyone, Annabelle, even in stodgy people like us," said Sherlock, quietly wincing from the sharp pinch I gave him. 

Annabelle smiled knowingly. "Outstanding. Our business model does run on the English proclivity to seek out forbidden desires."

I mentally stomped on my sudden urge to slap the smugness off her face. Though I was losing the battle with my rising temper and growing irritability, I managed to retain some focus. I was not going to jeopardize our fact-finding mission with my personal issues and overreacting hormones. I had to get a hold of myself. Taking a deep breath, I pictured my children sleeping soundly in their beds inside our temporary home. I would do anything to protect them, even at the cost of my own life. Since I had no intention of getting killed and leaving them all alone in the world, I needed to remain in control of my emotions. I could not afford to get distracted now. 

"I really do love your dress," I told my nemesis, managing to sound sincere. It wasn't a difficult task because I really did admire her outfit. She was a petite woman like me, but curvier. Her dress was red and black and stopped several inches above her knees. The material, which clung to her curves like second skin, was black leather that looked buttery-soft trimmed with red lace. The dress had long sleeves, so I couldn't tell if she had any tattoos that spanned the entire length of both of her arms, like I used to. 

"Oh, thank you." Her smile didn't reach her eyes and she made a point of visually inspecting me from head to toe before saying that she liked mine, too. 

"Shall we visit the third floor now?" Sherlock asked brightly, as though he could sense the brewing animosity between me and Annabelle, so he swooped in to diffuse the tension. "I'd really love to see your other amenities."

If it were up to me, I would have just ended the night. We'd already gotten the information we needed. The Kawada Clan was in London and the most prominent Yakuza presence around. No one other clan would dare hone in on their territory, which meant I didn't have to worry about running into my brother anytime soon. 

I haven't had contact with my father's clan in a decade and that included blood relatives. I was desperate to escape that life. My father used to say that I was more like him than my brother. I was more ruthless and less hesitant to kill. According to him, I must have his ancestor's warrior genes flowing through my veins. He'd also say that he wished I was the one who was born male, instead, and not my brother, Ryuji. 

Clearly, Annabelle knew who I was and that I was using a fake name. But then again, maybe she only recognized my face and hadn't yet realized who I was. One thing I was sure of, though, the longer we stayed in her orbit, the more likely she'd be able to connect the dots, if she hadn't already. What if she thought I was spying for the Tokugawa clan? 

I tugged at Sherlock's arm, meaning to tell him what I was concerned about, but all he did was smile down at me and pat my hand. "We'll just check it, my darling. Come on, don't you want to see what's upstairs?"

I had no choice but to join him as he started to walk toward the stairs to the third floor with Annabelle and Sonny leading us. The bouncer at the foot of the stairs automatically unclasped one side of the velvet cord and allowed us through. 

I had never been much of a party-goer and could count the number of times I've been to a nightclub on one hand, so my limited experience could not have possibly prepared me for the bacchanalia going on before my very eyes. Beautiful people in various states of undress frolicking in the pool, drinking massive amounts of alcohol, snogging in plain sight without a care for the people around them, dancing and grinding against each other in simulated acts of intercourse... nothing but uninhibited hedonism and pleasure. At least one hundred moneyed people and their entourage just having the time of their lives like the world was ending at midnight and they just had to party their asses off for the limited remaining time they had on earth.

I recognized A-list celebrities both British and American of all colors, almost every single one of them physically perfect. There were a few older people, mostly white men in their fifties with sweet, young things hovering around them, but for the most part, they were the veritable who's who of Hollywood and Europe, from footballers to big-budget movie stars, as well as rock and roll and hip-hop musicians. 

I suspected that my mouth was probably hanging open because I had never seen anything like it. Sherlock didn't strike me as an avid partier, either so I was surprised to see how nonchalant he was about everything, and even looked a little bored. Of course he caught me gawking at him, but all he did was chuckle and wink at me. 

Was I losing my mind? I had Sherlock pegged as an anti-social loner who should have been as out of place as I was feeling, but he seemed to be exactly in his element. He had a fresh drink in his hand and was chatting up the people who walked over to say hello. Who was this guy? 

Meanwhile, I was feeling more boxed in by the minute, barely able to handle the multi-colored lights and the Latin-style electronic music coming out of the speakers. On top of that, Annabelle was watching me as though she were a big cat just waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce on the mouse, who unfortunately in this scenario, was me. 

Some great detective I was turning out to be. I was so discombobulated that when a hand squeezed my arm, I jumped and would have flipped the person over my head had I not recognized Sonny in time. 

"Are you all right?" he asked, looking concerned. 

I laughed nervously. "Yeah, I'm just a little overwhelmed with all the... this is crazy."

He grinned at me. "You ain't seen nothing yet."


	13. Your Side or Mine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a precaution, Sherlock and Kayako decide to stay in a hotel instead of heading home to Baker Street, just in case they get followed from the nightclub. Awareness and discomfort flare in close quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is told from the first person POV of an original female character.

Sherlock wanted a private cabana for the two of us, but when he attempted to pay for it, the Kawadas said it was on the house. I saw the credit card he was going to use and whistled under my breath, impressed. An American Express Black Centurion card. He didn't seem wealthy, going by the looks of his flat, but according to John, he and his brother were raised in a large country manor house in Sussex. If he weren't some kind of trust fund baby, the consulting detective gig must be very lucrative, indeed. 

After all, he did pay for the refurbishment and furnishing of our current home. I haven't gotten a confirmation of that, but it was the only thing that made sense. The Scotland Yard certainly didn't spend all of the money settling us in Baker Street and all the evidence pointed to Sherlock Holmes as our benefactor. 

The Kawadas presented us with the cabana, told us to enjoy ourselves, and left to attend to their other guests. At least that's what they told us. Sherlock said we had to get rid of them, so we could go around the club more freely. I told him maybe they'd get uncomfortable and split if we acted like we couldn't wait to be alone together and groped each other like horny teenagers. He seemed amused by my suggestion, but went along with it. Within a couple of minutes, the cousins got the hint and skeedaddled. 

I pushed Sherlock away from me as soon as he released the privacy flaps from the fasteners and we were out of view. I was getting a little too comfortable with touching him. I keep telling myself that I can't afford to be distracted, especially with a fling that is only sure to destroy me and the children. Sherlock is only the third man in my life that I've ever felt so strongly for and I don't think the others affected me quite like this. On that first night I met him, I think I fell in love and the very thought of it frightens me to my core. 

"Kayako," he said in that uncanny way of his, the one that makes me suspect he can actually read my mind. "Are you all right? Would you like to keep going or do you think you've had enough for the evening?"

I was exhausted both emotionally and mentally. Physically, too, if I had to admit. I felt like I'd been wrung dry and didn't have anything left to give. But I had to keep going. I was a mother first and foremost and a soldier next. There wasn't room for anything else. "Don't worry about me." I jerked my head in the direction of the pool. "We need to find out what's fueling that bacchanalia out there."

He chuckled. "You mean other than basic human desires and alcohol? I should think those two things would be biggest culprit." He took a few steps until he was standing only a foot away from me and reached over to push a lock of hair out of my face that had escaped my hairdo to tuck it behind my ear. "You look exhausted, Kayako. I don't think there's anything more of value we can find out tonight. I made some inquiries while you were in the loo. The usual party drugs are in play: cocaine, variations of MDMA, LSD, heroin-laced marijuana, and PCP. I didn't come across any specific mentions of The Master."

I tried to picture Sherlock Holmes trying to score illegal drugs, but the image wouldn't quite coalesce in my mind. He did go undercover as a dosshead once and was convincing enough that his friends were actually concerned that he had become a real addict. Both John and Mary warned me about Sherlock's tendency toward obsession, as well as his pathological need to keep himself stimulated. A bored Sherlock Holmes, I was told, was a very dangerous Sherlock Holmes. 

I fought the urge to rub my eyes, so I wouldn't ruin the makeup that Lily had painstakingly applied earlier this evening. "Did you hear anything about that... non-addictive heroin patch that Jim supposedly invented?"

He shook his head. "No, thank God for small favors. I don't know that we should worry about it quite yet, Kayako. I have the only copy of the formula, don't I, and it's perfectly safe with me."

I bit my lower lip. "You do have that plan, don't you, about using it to draw out interested parties who may have had something to do with my husband's death?"

"I've quietly sent out feelers in the few days. There's been some bites, but nothing yet to get too excited about."

I nodded in consideration of this. "Have you a sense that the Yakuza are involved?"

"Not at the moment. The Yakuza's primary focus here in London has been prostitution, human trafficking, contract-killing, and blackmail and protection rackets for several years. Arms and drug dealing for the Irish, Chinese, and local gangs. I think we might be able to glean more relevant information when we attend that Genghis Khan exhibit grand opening in two days."

"Your money is on 14K?"

"Ever since the collapse of the Black Lotus Gang who basically ruled the drug trade here in the U.K. for fifteen years, there's been an immense power vacuum underground. I don't think Lee Chung-Sheng's visit is a coincidence." He put his hands on my shoulders. "You need the rest, Kayako. You look ready to collapse."

I tried to reassure him with a smile, but I couldn't quite get my mouth to form one. "If the Yakuza have nothing to do this, I'm afraid we may have inadvertently put me on their radar for nothing." I felt like hiding in a dark corner somewhere, drawing a blanket over my head, and curling up my body into a tight ball. "I've successfully hidden from them for almost a decade, Sherlock. God, why didn't I account for Annabelle Kawada recognizing me?"

His hands tightened around my shoulders. "I did, Kayako. I was counting on somebody recognizing you. I know all about the Tokugawa clan's previous association with the Kawadas."

I froze in his hold, my mouth dropping open. After a few seconds, I came back into myself and gave him a shove. "Goddamn it, Sherlock. You're using me as bait? Did you even think to apprise me of your plan?"

"I couldn't," he told me, meeting my gaze directly. "I had to see your unadulterated reaction to the Kawadas. The experiment would have been tainted had you known about it beforehand. Your adverse reaction to Annabelle Kawada rendered a few of my suppositions invalid."

I twisted away from him when he attempted to grab my arm. Facing a dark corner of the cabana, I covered my mouth with my palm to suppress a sob. I needed a few moments to regain my mental footing. I was really starting to believe that he cared about me and yet he had no compunction to dangle me in front of my enemies like a mouse over a snake's cage. What is wrong with me? I've been told repeatedly by different people that Sherlock Holmes is nigh incapable of considering the needs of others before his own. Why did I think he would never risk my safety in order to solve a case? It was Mrs. Hudson herself who imparted with me that Sherlock lived for the game, that it was the ultimate high for him to solve a case. It's just the way he is. 

Why do I feel like a fly squashed flat by a rolled-up newspaper? I can't believe how naive and gullible I've been. Sherlock Holmes is not the kind of man who acted on impulses and feelings, not unless he had the next ten moves planned out. My children and I are nothing more than pieces of a bigger puzzle to him. Even though he is our best chance of getting out of this mess alive, I have to keep in my mind that he doesn't actually care about us as people. There's nothing more important to him than the thrill of the chase and solving a case. Whether or not that made him a good or bad man is irrelevant. If or when he gets the resolution to this case that satisfies him the most, he will walk out of our lives and that will be the end of that. 

"Sherlock, you deliberately put my life and that of my children in danger," I declared flatly, though my own bitterness was threatening to choke me. "You are a fucking bastard."

"Of course not, Kayako, how can you even conceive of such a thing?" he demanded as if he were the affronted party. "I had Mycroft temporarily restrict all access to your public and personal records from the very beginning. If anyone were to look you up, they wouldn't be able to find anything. Everything from your immigration, work and credit histories, hospital visits, and list of residences from the very second you stepped foot on English soil have been pulled and locked up for the time being. Right now, Mrs. Kayako Carter, you are virtually a ghost."

The rush of relief that went through me made my knees weak and my head swim. I opened my mouth respond, only to have the thought vanish like a will of wisp in the wind. Is he this thorough in protecting all of his clients or are the children and I special? "We can't go back to Baker Street tonight, Sherlock. It's a certainty that we will be followed."

He scoffed. "What do you think I am, an amateur? William Scott has a permanent suite at the Savoy. That's where we'll be going."

I felt my mouth move to make a perfect O. "Ummm... Don't we have to check in with Lily and Mrs. Hudson to let them know we're not going to make it home tonight?"

"It's all right," he said, giving me a wry smile. "I've got it taken care of."

An hour later, I found myself standing in front of a bathroom mirror within a suite in the Savoy. I'd never stayed there before and I was bowled over by how fancy and opulent everything was. Upon our arrival, the concierge greeted Sherlock as though he were a royal and personally escorted us to the door of his suite. She was a tight-faced, forty-something blond woman called Bethany with a slight Cardiff accent. She told us to enjoy our stay and to let her know if there was anything at all she could do to make our visit memorable and homey. 

Sherlock was lying smack-dab in the middle of the king-sized bed, which he generously offered--with a sardonic eyebrow raise--to share with me. The hotel provided brand-new silk pyjamas for me and him and he wasted no time chucking his suit and changing into them. When he saw me looking at him from the door of the bathroom, he lifted his head from the pillow and gave me a jaunty little salute. 

I sighed heavily and closed the door, leaning against it for a moment. As soon as we got settled in the room, I called Baker Street to check on my kids. They were already asleep, but Mrs. Hudson was quick to assure me that they were bathed, fed, and told a story before they were ordered to bed. Just now she and Constable Lily had sat down to watch a rerun of "Grantchester" from last series.

With some of my concerns assuaged, I was finally able to let go for the first time that evening. All night, it seemed my shoulders had been hunched up to my ears as though my body was bracing for a physical attack. On the bathroom counter was a basket of toiletries for our convenience. There were two toothbrushes in individually sealed boxes, toothpaste, a bottle of mouthwash, a shaving razor, a small dispenser of shaving cream, shampoo, hair conditioner, and body soaps and lotions imported from France. There was also a comb and a hairbrush sealed in plastic packages. I had everything I needed to wash the makeup from my face and the nightclub smells from my body. I hated it in there. The noise, the tobacco smell, all the people talking, their jumbled emotions, spilled alcohol... they were all combined in a pungent stench that was like a miasma of grease and human desperation.

I scrubbed my face free of the makeup and released my hair from the updo that Lily had worked on. Once finished, my appearance almost shocked me. Lily had transformed me earlier into a beautiful, sexy woman with almost no effort and now I was standing in front of the mirror, back to my usual self. Haggard, tired, and old for my age. I reached into the stall separate from the bathtub that looked like it could hold three people and turned on the shower to get the water warm. 

After taking off my clothes, I got under the shower and allowed the water to sluice over my head for several moments, clearing the fog in my brain. I was exhausted and all of my muscles were screaming in pain as though I were beaten up to an inch of my life. It must be stress from the last couple of weeks. It seemed the limitations of my body were finally catching up with me. I picked up a fragrant soap that smelled like lemons and vanilla and used the wash cloth to make a lather. I scrubbed my skin as if by doing so, I could get rid of my scars and tattoos. But no amount of thorough washing would do that. I was stuck with them forever, or at least until I had the time and money to get them lasered off. I wasn't even sure if I'd live long enough to aspire for something like that.

I cleaned myself as best as I could and turned off the shower. Drying myself with a towel, I wondered how long I'd been in here and if Sherlock were still awake. I was kind of hoping he'd be asleep because I didn't think I could deal with him anymore tonight. He was such an overwhelming person, a hurricane of stimuli and triggering moments. I could never attain mental or emotional silence around him. He constantly challenged me in so many ways. 

I wrapped my long, wet hair in the fluffiest, softest towel I've ever come across and debated whether or not to use a blowdryer. I hated sleeping with wet hair, but didn't want to risk waking up Sherlock, either, if he were already asleep. 

I reached into the wardrobe for a bathrobe, which was white and had the hotel insignia embroidered on the right breast. In the hotels I'd stayed at in the past, only one size was usually provided and even a medium was too big for me. The robe I just put on, however, was a small and fit me perfectly. There were three more robes inside the wardrobe and they were medium, large, and extra-large. I'd never really been a fan of the "one size fits all" mentality of the United States because uhh... no, it doesn't. 

When I exited the bathroom, I found that Sherlock Holmes was still up and watching the telly. I hesitated to take another step and would have gone back to the bathroom, except he had already spotted me. I clutched the lapels of my bathrobe closed. No, I didn't have on a stitch of clothing underneath it, but his scrutiny of me somehow made me feel more naked. 

He was stretched out on the ridiculously large bed, which was on a platform and had steps on the side closest to me, and propped up by four white pillows. Dressed in the navy-blue silk pyjamas provided by the hotel, he had his long legs crossed at the ankles and the telly remote on his stomach. 

I glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table and saw that it was half past one in the morning. Feeling absurdly shy, I asked him what he was watching. 

"A baking show. I find it endlessly fascinating that people could lose their minds and cool while making the most unsubstantial of food items. Pastries and confectionaries are supposed to be fun, happy things, yet the humans who make them always seem to be so stressed and unhappy, like they're brewing poison for a deathrow prisoner or something."

I smiled. He looked genuinely confused and it was kind of adorable. "That's the idea, I think, being able to create light, pretty, and delicious things in a high-stress, time-restricted environment. Quite a feat and a virtue, don't you agree?"

He shook his head. "I have found over the years that I thrive under such conditions and yet I do prefer serenity and solitude for when I do my deductions."

"Which are never light and fluffy," I replied wryly. 

He gave me a half-smile in acknowledgment. "Why are you standing over there like a nervous virgin on prom night? Come on up to bed, you silly thing. There's enough room here between us so we wouldn't have to touch, even accidentally, if that is a concern for you."

I opened my mouth to respond, realized I didn't actually have anything to say, and closed it again. I wasn't afraid that Sherlock would touch me; I was afraid he wouldn't. I wasn't very confident of my own restraint, either. I wanted to put my hands all over his body. 

"Right, then. Good." I dashed to my side of the bed, grabbed the neatly folded pyjamas laid out on top, and ran back into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. 


	14. The Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Kayako share a bedroom suite at the Savoy in other to avoid going back to Baker Street. They receive an unexpected visitor in the middle of the night. Kayako discovers more of Sherlock's secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is narrated from the first person POV of an original female character.

He was right. I felt like a nervous virgin on prom night. Here I was, stuck in the bathroom of a really fabulous hotel suite because I was a silly bitch and thus, afraid to return to the bedroom. I'd already dried my hair and braided it in hopes Sherlock would be asleep by the time I was finished. 

In the mirror, I studied my reflection and noted the red spots on my cheeks. I touched them and felt heat. Why was my body betraying me like this? I didn't want to desire Sherlock Holmes. Hell, I didn't even like him most of the time. 

The problem laid upon the tiny moments when I did like him: like, when he's unexpectedly sensitive and tender, or when he's sweet and kind to my kids. It was maddening, to say the least. Before I could even process what's happening most of the time, he's already returned to his weirdo, aloof self. It was nigh impossible to get to know the man in any acceptable capacity. 

Taking a deep breath, I put my hand on the doorknob and yanked the door open, only to find him on the other side with his fist up as though he were about to knock himself. He quickly took a step back and busied himself with straightening his pyjamas and fiddling with its buttons. 

"I'm sorry I took so long," I muttered, unable to stop staring at his long, slender fingers. "Do you need the loo?"

Now that I've stopped to think about it, I'd never actually seen Sherlock use the bathroom. Like, ever. I'd spent several hours with the man and not once had I ever witnessed him excuse himself to use the facilities to take a leak or do whatever. Was the man actually a robot? Constable Lily Mendoza had jokingly suggested it. That would make sense. He seemed to be able to turn on and off whatever semblance he had of emotion at will. 

"I meant to check on you." He placed his hands on my shoulders. "You were gone an awful long while. I was afraid something bad might have happened to you. You're under my protection, after all."

I shivered under the weight of his touch, even through the fabric of my pyjamas. "I'm all right, Sherlock." His concern was obvious. For once, he didn't sound sardonic. I felt like crying. I pushed past him and he easily yielded, allowing me to pass. "I'm tired and I just want to go to sleep."

I went straight for the king-sized bed without looking behind me. He followed right after me step for step. I could practically feel his breath on my hair. As soon as I climbed on the bed, I scooted over to the far side so that he was on the side of the bed closest to the bathroom. There was enough space between us that we could put another grown adult in the middle and we wouldn't be cramped.

I noticed he had turned off the telly. I wish he hadn't. The silence only emphasized the awkwardness that permeated the suite.

Sherlock got on the bed next to me, maintaining the space between us. "It's been a long time since I've slept next to anyone, bed or otherwise," he said conversationally. "There was a Woman. But I haven't heard from her in a while."

"Woman" was spoken with a capital W, which I found interesting. I picked up a pillow and put it on my lap. Much to my annoyance, I began to fiddle with it, even though that was not my initial intention. I tried to keep any interest from my voice. "Oh?"

He nodded, keeping a close watch on my face. "If it'll make you feel more comfortable, Mrs. Carter, I can sleep on the couch."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Holmes." I stuffed the pillow behind me, so I would stop messing with it. "The bed is big enough for four people. We will be fine."

Why were we so formal with each other? I wanted nothing more than to just grab him and... what, kiss him? Have my way with him? It's all the stress and pressure I'd been going through these last several weeks, it had to be. Otherwise, it didn't make sense why I suddenly had sex on the brain all the time, when I barely even noticed that Jim and I had basically stopped having sex until almost a year had passed. 

"Kayako," he said in that deep, velvety voice of his that felt like a feather being slowly drawn into a zigzag down my back. "You did wonderfully. I know I put you in a difficult position tonight, but you came through with class and grace. I learned a few useful nuggets about the Kawadas."

My skin seemed to burn under the intensity of his scrutiny. "I'm glad for you, Sherlock, because I don't think I can go through that again."

I was so wrapped up in my misery and quietly recalling my encounter with Annabelle Kawada earlier this evening that I didn't realize that Sherlock had scooted a lot closer to me and was near enough that he could lean toward me and breathe in my scent. I pushed him away, but not too hard. 

"What are you doing?" I hissed. But I felt his lips on my hair and the side of my head, so my body was still reverberating with the sensations. I wanted more of it.

"You have tension within you, Kayako," he murmured close to my ear. "I feel it is my responsibility to help ease it for you."

Startled, I turned toward him and discovered I was encircled in his arms. The self-honed instincts that I've depended on for so long failed me. I didn't even notice he had gotten so close until he already had his arms around me. I couldn't move at all, not to respond nor to get away. I was terrified of my own inertia and indecision. 

"Stop it," I said, hating the breathlessness of my own voice. I should push him away and get out of the bed, but I was rendered immobile by my own weakness. "Don't do _this_ , Sherlock."

I would not be left devastated like I was last time. While I enjoyed his ministrations, I didn't like how needy and desperate his touch made me feel. He began to apply feather-light kisses to the side of my neck, jaw, side of my face, then finally my temple. Nibbling, sipping little kisses like he was tasting my skin. Savoring it like it was fine wine.

"Sherlock, _please don't_ ," I implored, but I failed to convince even myself.

He suddenly stopped and lifted his head. "Did I misread your body's reactions to my actions and you're not enjoying yourself, Kayako? Am I holding you under duress?"

His deep azure eyes flashed with challenge. For a moment, I couldn't speak. "No, Sherlock. I find your attention pleasurable, in fact. But I am confounded by it. I thought you said romantic entanglements are distracting and your only raison d'etre is the work.

That seemed to do the trick. The teasing glint disappeared from his gaze and he eased himself away from me. "Frankly, Mrs. Carter, I don't understand it, either." He ran a hand through his hair and laughed softly. "I've always prided myself for my self-control and ability to restrain my impulses, especially when it comes to sexual desire. It was easy, you see. I rather thought of myself asexual.

"But what about the Woman?"

He laid back on the bed, folded his hands together, and put them under his head. "She was... something. Smart, attractive, witty. Could never quit while she's ahead. I've had to get her out more near-death situations than a man can count." He was looking at the ceiling, smiling as though he were fondly reminiscing about her. "Very few people have managed to trick me in the past, but she--"

I was leaning against a bank of pillows with my arms crossed tightly under my breasts. I had asked about the Woman, but realized too late that I didn't actually want to hear about her. I reached for the telly remote between us and turned on the screen. I was welcomed by the Netflix catalogue of movies and shows.

Sherlock stopped talking and peeked over the pillow I had placed in the middle of the bed as a divider. "Would you rather I don't talk about my previous lovers, Mrs. Carter? Mary once told me too much honesty between a couple could be a bad thing."

I sighed. "We're not a couple, Sherlock, are we? You can talk about whomever you want."

"We shouldn't be talking anymore, anyway. It's bedtime. Big day of sleuthing tomorrow." He took the remote from my hand and turned off the telly, then the lamp on his side of the bed. 

I was about to protest, but a yawn undermined anything I might have said. "I guess I'm pretty tired. Sleep would be good." I leaned over to my nightstand and tugged at the pull cord to turn off the Tiffany lamp. "Good night, Mr. Holmes."

In the dark, his chuckle was deep and indulgent. "Good night, Mrs. Carter."

My eyes hadn't been closed for five minutes when I heard knocks on the door. I bolted into a sitting position and turned on my lamp. Sherlock was already on his feet.

"Stay on the bed," he hissed at me as he carefully made his way toward the door. "Who is it?"

"Delivery, Mr. Scott," said the voice from the other side of the door. 

I clutched a pillow to my chest as Sherlock gave me a warning look and held up a finger against his mouth. I ran a half a dozen scenarios of who it could be outside the door and all of them bad.

"At 2 in the morning?" Sherlock called back, using his most supercilious voice. "You woke up my wife. Management will hear about this."

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Scott, but the night manager himself insisted," answered the steward. "He said the sender was adamant that it was delivered immediately to Miss Karen Lee."

Sherlock was almost at the door, but stopped and held his back against the wall next to it. "Just leave whatever it is at the door and go away, there's a good lad."

"But Mr. Scott, I was told to make sure that Miss Lee receives it."

I felt a whimper coming up from my chest, but suppressed it by pressing the side of my fist to my teeth. My heart was slamming itself against my ribcage and shallow breaths were sawing in and out of my mouth. Terror had replaced any self-preservational instincts I had developed over the years and I couldn't move from where I sat on the bed. I was staring at Sherlock, scared out of my wits.

I imagined there was a man out there with an old-fashioned Tommy gun hidden within a bouquet of flowers, just waiting to blast him away as soon as he opened the door. If I were going to die tonight, fine, as long they left my children alone. But what if they'd already _killed_ my children and Mrs. Hudson?

From his spot behind the wall, Sherlock slowly extended his arm to reach for the doorknob. 

_"Don't!"_ I cried. "Don't open it."

Sherlock's head whipped back toward me. He held out his hand, palm up to signal stop, telling me to stay where I was. He returned his attention to the door. "Son, I don't intend to sign for any packages at this time, so you just better come back in the morning. You've interrupted my sleep long enough. Now give me your name."

"Mr. Scott, please, I was told--"

"Your name, son," Sherlock repeated. 

"It's Michael, sir."

"Now, Michael, what is it you're trying to deliver? I realize I should have asked you that to begin with, but quite frankly, I was peeved about being woken up at 2 am."

"I really am sorry, Mr. Scott. I thought myself that the delivery could wait until tomorrow, but Mr. Gupta, the night manager, said the sender insisted that it was urgent."

I chewed on my lower lip as I tried to imagine what the package was. A bomb inside a cake? I met Sherlock's gaze from across the room and he gave me a small smile. He smiled at me. Like to reassure me. What the hell...

"What's so urgent that it can't wait until tomorrow, Michael?" he asked in a voice that implied he was already bored with the whole thing.

"That's just it, Mr. Scott. They're just... flowers." The young man on the other side of the door sounded truly confounded. "Just long-stemmed red roses, sir. A dozen of them. I thought maybe you yourself had them delivered as a surprise to Miss Lee, sir."

"I'd have to remember that for next time, young Michael. Thanks for the tip. Speaking of tips, there's fifty quid in it for you if you take out the card and read it to me aloud."

"Uhh..."

It occurred to me that the young steward must now be in quite a dilemma. The flowers he had in his arms could have been sent by the extracurricular lover of the married woman staying in this suite and her husband had just asked him to read the card aloud. I would find it funny if I weren't also halfway convinced that this was all a ruse and the young steward was actually a Yakuza assassin.

"Read it," Sherlock commanded. "Go on now."

"All right... _'K, I'm sorry I missed you tonight. Hopefully, I'll get to see you next time. Love, H.K.'_ "

"Good lad. Off you go now, young man, and take the flowers with you. In the morning, you'll find an envelope with your fifty quid in it. You can trust me." He looked at me and winked. "I'm one of the major stockholders of this hotel group."

"Oh, okay. I'm so sorry, Mr. Scott. Please don't get me fired. I'm leaving the flowers and heading out right now, okay? I'm really sorry, Mr. Scott."

"You were just doing your job, Michael. Your night manager, what is his full name?"

"It's Fariq Gupta, sir." 

"Very good, young Michael. Now off you go."

 _H.K_. There could be only one person with those initials who would know where we were. I hugged my arms to myself and tried to rub off the goosebumps from my skin. Was he at the club tonight, hiding in the shadows? For years, I had believed he was dead.

"Kayako?" Sherlock had to call my name twice for me to hear him. He sat next to me on the bed. "Do you believe it was Haruki Kawada who sent you the flowers?"

I started to shake my head, but instead I began to sob and shiver so badly that Sherlock wrapped his arms around me. "I thought he was dead. _I saw him die, Sherlock._ He was on his motorcycle when he was gunned down by a rival gang."

He pulled me closer to him and stroked my back. "He has a twin brother, doesn't he? Jinji Kawada. A surgeon in Tokyo."

I raised my head from his shoulder and wiped my tears with the sleeve of my pyjama top. "Jinji became a doctor? Good. He was never meant to follow the path of gokudō. He was the best of us." I met Sherlock's gaze. "Haruki is dead, Mr. Holmes. _These flowers_... they're a trick. Probably sent as a warning from Anabelle. She recognized me."

Sherlock brushed my hair out of my face. "I can tell you, at least, that the young steward was by himself and not under duress. I couldn't hear anyone else in the hallway and the boy really was more worried about losing his job than his life."

I attempted to smile, but couldn't quite manage it. "Well, good. I didn't think I could handle any more excitement tonight." I wiped my tears with the side of my fist. "Are you really a major stockholder of this hotel group?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I try not to lie unless I absolutely have to, Mrs. Carter. A few years ago, I got bored and started playing a bit with the stock market. I turned out to be rather good at it. Now I've got so much money, I don't know what you do with it. I've tried investing in riskier ventures, but the payoffs come back threefold."

No wonder he could spend so much money on us without even blinking. It truly meant nothing to him. "I see."

He studied me closely, his blue eyes peering into mine. "Do you? I promised to protect you and your children with my life and everything I have in my disposal, Mrs. Carter. I mean it."

I reached up to touch his cheek. "Sherlock, I'm afraid. Anabelle Kawada knows who I am. If it weren't Haruki who sent the flowers, then it could only be her. If her intention were to scare me, only she would know enough about me to sign the flowers with Haruki's name. "

He turned his head and kissed the middle of my palm. "We'll have to stay here for a while. We can't risk going home to Baker Street or we'd lead them directly to the children. I'll call John and Mary to ask them to stay at my place, so Mrs. Hudson will have some help."

I dropped my face in my hands and wept at the thought of not seeing my children for a while. It was for their safety, I knew, but I was going to miss them so much. Timmy hated it when I was away for too long. "Oh, God. Why is this happening? The children have done nothing to deserve this."

Sherlock said nothing, merely stroked my back in comfort. 


End file.
